Rat
by Lenny the Wicked
Summary: Some of Grelod's street rats will do anything to free themselves from her wrath. For Agnes, all it took was a failed attempt at pickpocketing Riften's favorite con man. Critique is appreciated.
1. The Ratway

**Damn it Bestheda, why'd you have to put the orphanage in the same city as the Thieves' Guild? :I I couldn't help it. My muse got rolling and now...**

"What're you doing in there, lass?"

A strong hand gripped her thin wrist, and Agnes winced. It didn't hurt, but she hated being touched. She hated being held even more. "Let me go."

"I don't think so."

She growled lowly, trying not to draw attention to herself. If she got caught, Grelod would know for sure where she was and what she was doing. It was more important that the old hag didn't know. She could deal with the discomfort if it kept her safe from that old crone.

"You're one of Grelod's urchins aren't you?"

Agnes scowled – she was, but she hated it. "So?"

"I won't tell a guard," he offered, "But how'd you like to make some gold?"

Agnes had no idea what she would do if she had any money. She figured, though, a pocket full of septims would get her a few snacks more than Constance would sneak them. A small smile flitted across her face before she forced a stern frown. "Alright."

The man explained that if she could slip a few gems from Madesi's satchel, he'd pay her for them. She asked why – Madesi seemed nice. He mentioned the work that went into his pieces – little trinkets that Agnes would never have. In the end, she didn't even understand the answer, but Madesi would live, and his work wouldn't suffer for it. Only come to a pause. She accepted it.

It wasn't so hard to sneak past Madesi. He was on his way out and looking forward to going to rest. Agnes wished she could say the same. Normally, he gave her what she assumed was a fond smile and then a light tap on the head, along with the sound advice that she should return to Grelod soon. Today he didn't even see her.

The lock was simple enough that she could break into his stand. From the shadows, it was hard to tell what she was grabbing. She felt chains and something hard and clinking coins – she grabbed a fistful before picking at the stones. She didn't know what she picked up, but she snuck back behind the tavern to meet the red-haired Nord.

"Hello there Lass," he greeted casually.

"I got 'em."

"Keep your voice down, would you? I can see them."

Agnes raised a brow, convinced that he was either lying or had the eyes of a cat. And yet, he seemed pleased by the collection, and praised her.

"This is good work, Lass. Not one person saw you, did they now."

It wasn't a question. They hadn't.

"I don't suppose you'd want to do this again?"

"You said you'd pay me," Agnes reminded him, frowning,

The older Nord smiled. "All business are we? Here," he handed her a small pouch of coins, about the size of his own fist. It was more money than Agnes had ever seen. "Now, about future business?"

She was too busy staring at her prize – she would have to find some place to stash it in case Grelod found it. She could hear him, but it was too overwhelming for her to listen. She ran over all of the places she could hide it. There was her bed – too risky – and her chest – to obvious.

"Are you alright?"

"I—yes."

"If you need some time—"

"I do. I just don't have anywhere to—"

"Do you know where the Ratway is?"

Agnes did. She had hidden down there once. She had meant to escape from Grelod, but she had only gotten to a dark, moldy stairwell before a pair of guards caught her arm. She nodded, saving her breath.

"Get to the end of that tunnel – there's a place called the Ragged Flagon. If you can get down there, we can discuss your future."

She smiled faintly, and then turned to go back to Honorhall. She hated it there, but if Grelod didn't see her in her bed, the gates of Oblivion would be nothing by comparison. The man didn't question it, which was good.

It wasn't until she reached the orphanage door that she realized she still didn't know his name.

* * *

When the girl came down to the Flagon, it was two weeks later and she was sporting a black eye and a bandaged wrist. He couldn't tell if she'd received those injuries before or after she entered the Ratway, but she wasn't limping or grimacing, and she was crouched so well he doubted she'd have been spotted.

"What did I tell you?" Brynjolf asked Delvin, smirking. He had, however, expected Delvin to be right after the first week.

The little girl approached, still crouched although she'd been spotted, clutching a steak knife to her chest. Dirge stepped in front of her to block her path, and Brynjolf stepped in front of Dirge to wave him off.

"I was beginning to think you wouldn't show up," Brynjolf said with a smile.

"Can't be worse than the old crone," she muttered.

He immediately assumed that the old woman had found whatever money Agnes had collected, and didn't bother asking questions. The guild was in no good shape, but neither was she. The Flagon was falling apart and she didn't seem to notice. Or care.

"What do I have to do?" she asked.

Brynjolf wasn't going to question much about her. He'd seen her work, and for an urchin she had talent. He knew he couldn't let her do anything diplomatic, just snatch and go jobs. Quick things. Simple things. But those still brought money into the guild. Maybe, he thought, she'd be a good con artist. But Riften wasn't the place for that.

"How much of a mess are you in?"

"I—what makes you think…" She glared at him, but a firm stare made her cave. They'd have to work on that. "Grelod found my stash and she locked me up."

He'd never been inside the orphanage, and frankly he didn't want to. He had no idea what she meant by "locked up." Maybe confined in her room.

"I thought she was gonna kill me," she laughed breathily. "She probably will if she catches me again."

Just as he thought, Riften wasn't a safe place for her to work. If they could make her look a little less pathetic, namely to Maven, then she could be an asset. Until then, someone would have to compensate, and Brynjolf knew it would be him.

"Follow me," he said, leading her through the Flagon. "I'll show you what we're about."

Agnes knew they weren't in any sort of luxury the second she entered the cistern, but it was nicer than the orphanage still – and for one reason: Grelod wasn't there. She saw an elven archer, shooting arrows into targets, a pair of hooded men conversing at the table over dusty bottles of mead. A woman resting in her bed, flipping a coin over her fingers. A man leaning over a desk, glancing up from his work with a scowl. He stood, and approached the center, where light pooled.

"Brynjolf, what are you thinking?"

The Nord frowned. "Now that's hardly fair – you haven't seen her work."

"Getting a kid from the orphanage?" the Breton scoffed. "Risky bet there, Brynjolf."

Agnes was quiet, and curious. The man was like Grelod in a way, angry and gruff, but Brynjolf was smiling as though it were normal, and not at all dangerous, for the Breton to get so angry so quickly.

"Are you still going to keep her?"

"I don't see why not," Brynjolf replied with a casual shrug.

"What, now you're adopting me?" she quipped, smirking herself.

The dark-haired man glared at her, and then at Brynjolf. "Might as well be. If this doesn't pay—"

"It will," he said. "You have my word."

The man left, back to his desk, where he glowered at some documents. Agnes looked to Brynjolf, cocking her head and pursing her lips in confusion. "Who's he?"

"Mercer Frey, our Guildmaster."

Agnes scowled. "He acts like Grelod."

"Aye?"

"What do I have to do?"

"Well first you're going to fix up your wrist and learn how to hold a knife," Brynjolf said, plucking the steak knife from her hand. At first she resisted, but he was stronger than her and it was a short-lived tug-of-war. "Then I'm going to see if you have the first idea how to fight before sending you out there."

"You didn't care last time," Agnes muttered.

"Last time you'd have been booted to the orphanage," Brynjolf warned. "And that could still happen, and if It does we're not taking you back. If you get caught elsewhere, I can't say. Most people won't take kindly to you taking their things."

"Does everyone have to—"

"No," he answered quickly. "But they can."

Agnes frowned – it was going to be rough, at least for a little while. Lurking had become something of a pastime for her, and she was certain that she would get bored of it in the same environment with the same people every day.

Brynjolf frowned and moved to rest a hand on her shoulder, but she ducked away, just out of reach. Luckily for her, he had nothing to say, instead leaving for the Flagon.

* * *

Mercer could see her sneaking around the Flagon. She made several rounds in an hour, just before she settled down in her bed to check up on her wrist. He'd seen it – it was absolutely mangled. That it wasn't infected was a miracle. It irritated him when she settled at the table, staring blankly at the book of shadowmarks. One day, when he passed by, he snatched the book out of her hands and carved the guild symbol on the table.

"Well?"

She stared at it, furrowing her brow. Her jaw was clenched – he could tell. She was angry. And she had no idea what the mark he'd just carved even was. But he let her squirm for a little longer, trying to figure what symbol he'd just carved.

"It's the guild symbol," she muttered uncertainly.

He scowled, and tossed the book back at her. Maybe she _could_ read.

* * *

Agnes didn't like the way that Mercer glared at her while she flipped through the book. She had no idea what it said, and instead compensated by remembering the kinds of places where those symbols had been. Taverns and shops usually had the circled square with lines crossed through. Homes had a similar mark but without the lines – manors sometimes had a mark like the guild symbol.

One evening, Mercer approached her and yanked the book from her hands. He glared at it, at her, and then handed it back to her. "Read this."

"That's the loot mark—"

" I don't care what mark it is," Mercer snapped. "Read it."

Agnes clenched her jaw. She really had no idea what the book said. She had never learned how to read. She scowled, and she stared at the page. She stared at it for quite some time, waiting for Mercer to get bored and leave. He didn't.

"Read it."

Agnes frowned. She couldn't. She had no idea what to say, but Mercer wasn't budging, and she had a feeling that he just wanted her to confess.

"I can't read."

Mercer smirked, as though he'd known all along and the real task was getting her to admit it. But his smile faded quickly, and once again he was scowling. "Stop wasting our time. Go ask Brynjolf."

* * *

"Brynjolf?"

The voice was small, and it was easy to tell who it was. No one else in the cistern had such a squeak of a voice. It was Agnes, for certain, and when Brynjolf looked to her, he raised a brow. She looked as though she'd done something wrong. Other than stealing, of course, she seemed not to care about larceny.

"Um…Mercer…told me to ask you—"

"Just spit it out, Lass," he said, amused.

"I can't read."

Brynjolf frowned. "What?" She was quiet, looking away and shrugging. From what Brynjolf had seen, she was clever. It had never occurred to him that she may not know how to read, or write. He hadn't really thought of her as being a child, but clearly he was wrong.

"I don't know how to read."

He snorted. "Can't you learn?"

"I tried," she said. "The one with all the pictures – I tried using that one. But I couldn't read it."

"Shadowmarks?"

She nodded, and then it was quiet. Brynjolf hadn't thought that he'd have to teach her how to read. He was training her, not raising her. But then, he supposed, a little of both would be done no matter what. He sighed. "Sit down then."

* * *

She was clever. A few pages of each book lying around the cistern and she could read at a well-enough level to decipher simple books and notes. She was clever enough to copy down the symbols and words she needed to form notes of her own. He wasn't worried that she wouldn't be able to read – now he was worried that she would try to read a little too much. Stopping mid-heist to read a book wouldn't help her, so he was sure to warn her to just bring her things back to the cistern.

"Brynjolf?" she asked. "How much longer do I have to practice this stuff?"

Until he could figure out where to send her. He didn't say it, instead ignoring her briefly. But she was insistent, staring him down and opening her mouth when she determined that he wouldn't answer. "When you prove you're not going to get yourself killed."

To Brynjolf's mind, it was a satisfactory answer. She didn't seem to think so, petulantly insisting that she wouldn't. It was almost endearing. Almost. "Lass, if you really want to get out then leave. Just don't expect us to help you out if you get caught."

That shut her up. She finished reading, and then excused herself to the Cistern.

"Bryn, why'd you even bring 'er down 'ere in the first place?"

Brynjolf huffed. "Caught her trying to pickpocket me."

"You_ caught_ her—"

Brynjolf laughed it off. "Stranger things have happened."

* * *

The air was crisp and cool. It was the kind of night that Agnes liked to sneak out on. The kind where people were too preoccupied with their beds to check for the little girl outside their window, fantasizing about what home was like. Now she didn't quite have to fantasize. She had known, living with Grelod, that she may never see home. She still knew.

At least she knew what it was like to have a bed of your own.

She wondered if Brynjolf or Mercer had seen her getting out. They seemed to be the only two who ever spotted her – well, them and Delvin. Vex, if she noticed, had never made mention.

Idly she fantasized about slipping through a crack in Riften's walls, escaping the town entirely. But she had no idea where she would go if she left. Instead, she sat in the tomb concealing the Cistern's other entrance, holding a book she had never been able to read before, as well as the note concealed in it. It was her only possession – the one thing she'd always kept hidden from Grelod no matter what. Today, she was confident that she could read it, but fear kept her arms tightly wrapped around the book, leaving the note inaccessible.

* * *

When Mercer passed through the Cistern, he took note of everything. Vipir boasting, Rune rolling his eyes. Agnes sitting quietly on her bed with a book in her hands. Either she was still pretending to read, or she was a quick learner, and Mercer was leaning towards the former.

Once again, he reached out and grabbed the book, but she held it more tightly. "Let go!" she snapped. "This is mine!"

Mercer scoffed. More like the words of a victim than the words of a thief. He pulled it anyways and held it above her head, just high enough that she couldn't reach it. "Really? I had some doubts."

"That's not funny," she snapped. She'd clenched her fists and stood on top of the bed, but she didn't reach for it. She probably knew how that game went – she jumped, he stepped away. Rinse and repeat.

"Mercer," Rune called. He stepped forward and crossed his arms. "Just give it back. We don't steal from guild members – wasn't that one of the first rules you beat into everyone?"

Mercer scowled, but nevertheless he tossed the book back at Agnes. "She's hardly a member," he recalled, smirking as she frowned. "Fine. Book's not worth a septim anyway."

As he made his rounds, his eyes drifted back to Agnes, struggling to read the book. Maybe, he thought, she had picked up just enough. He'd have to see for himself some day. Brynjolf had called her clever, but Mercer didn't see it.

* * *

The book: Chance's Folly. Agnes had taken a full twenty minutes to decipher the second word, though she understood what it meant. The story was just a little disturbing, and she had trouble forcing herself to sleep after reading. But it wasn't the story that really interested her. It was the note on the cover. It was smudged now that Mercer's gloves had gotten onto it – they were covered in new ink, and now Agnes could barely decipher it.

She murmured the letters under her breath, barely understanding what they meant. Eventually she was able to form a butchered phrase: "C'est la poule qui chante qui a fait l'œuf."

There were more just like it, but she couldn't muster the patience to read them.

She didn't understand it. She needed a Breton. Mercer was a Breton, but she wasn't going to ask him. She didn't like him at all. He bullied her too much. Brynjolf was much nicer, but Agnes doubted he would know what it meant. Rune was nice too, but he was the one who told her that a Breton would understand.

So she was reduced to those who kept themselves contained in the Flagon. Delvin was cryptic to Agnes, but he would have to do.

She crouched by the false cabinet, waiting for Delvin to spot her. She shifted forward, inching her way as close as she could. Her goal was to get almost an arm's length from the chair, and just when she had nearly been able to reach out and touch it, Delvin turned his head around. "Bryn's in the market."

"I'm not looking for Brynjolf," she said. She stood upright, and scratched the back of her neck.

"Well?"

"Um…you're a Breton…right?"

"Last I checked," he replied, amused.

She held her copy of the note in her hand, right on top of the book. When she glanced up to Delvin, he looked bored, maybe a little impatient. But he wasn't saying anything. "I was reading this…um…there's a note…I don't know what it means. Could you—"

"Do I get paid?"

Agnes scowled. "When I have something to pay you with."

Delvin grinned in a way that made Agnes realize that he had been joking. "I'll hold you to it," he laughed. She groaned. "Give it here."

"C'est la poule qui chante qui a fait l'œuf."

"What's that mean?"

"It's the hen that sings who laid the egg."

"That's stupid," Agnes said immediately. "Hens don't sing. They squawk."

Delvin shrugged, handing her back the note. "Why'd you want to know then?"

Agnes frowned. She didn't really want to tell him. It wasn't any of his business why she wanted to know – she was learning how to read. She just wanted to know everything she read. Right? No, there was more to it. The book was the one thing she'd kept from her mother's house, now deserted. She barely remembered her mother, except for that when she had a nightmare she slept in the same bed, and her mother stroked her hair. Her mother's name was Liesel. She had pretty blond hair, down to her waist, kept in a tight braid. There was always a bow slung over her shoulder.

Agnes had her eyes.

"I answered your question," Delvin taunted.

"That book was my Ma's," she answered. Not true – it was her father's. Why her father would have a book with Breton writing was beyond Agnes.

**Reviews would be much appreciated. Especially critique. A lot of this is stuff I came up with cause I was bored too.**

**Update: Fixed some formatting errors that were upsetting the flow.  
**


	2. Dishonest Work

**Well, I'm not sure I gave a physical description of Agnes but I guarantee it will show up eventually. I'll either edit it back in or add a description in the next chapter. If you're curious, I'll describe it in the bottom.**

Brynjolf preferred training Agnes to training with Mercer. It gave him plenty of time to think. All he had to do was keep himself from hurting her too badly, and then he could leave her to her own devices. She progressed quickly enough that he was not concerned.

Sometimes, after training, he would stay in the room and watch – or pretend to watch as the case were. He preferred being surprised when he sparred with her.

Today he was surprised because she stopped to ask him something.

"The hen who sings laid the egg…do you know what that means?"

Brynjolf snorted. "Dog that barks the loudest is guilty," he rephrased it. "The more you point fingers or claim innocence, the guiltier you look. Who told you that?"

"I heard it somewhere," she said. Brynjolf had his doubts, and he furrowed his brow in response. Usually she would cave in and tell him after he gave her that look, but this time she was silent as stone. She didn't want to say, and frankly he didn't want to ask.

"Well, good advice at least," Brynjolf laughed.

* * *

When Agnes went to train, Brynjolf wasn't there. But Mercer was.

"Brynjolf usually—"

"He's out on a heist. And so are you. Do a sweep of the keep."

Agnes stared at Mercer. That was a lot to ask for a first heist. Delvin had told her that she'd probably be breaking into a house to steal a fancy vase or a necklace or something. Most likely she wouldn't be sent off to do anything big. And Brynjolf had told her that she'd probably operate outside of Riften. But this was neither small nor distant.

"Brynjolf said—"

"Brynjolf is second to me," Mercer sapped. "Earn your keep or leave."

Agnes frowned, but she wouldn't argue. She had wanted to take a heist, and if nothing else she would have plenty of chance to prove herself. Maybe Mercer would bully her less when he saw how good at thievery she really was. After all, Mercer lived in the dark. The guards didn't.

"Alright," she said, turning to leave.

* * *

"Mercer," Brynjolf asked. "Have you seen Agnes anywhere?"

"No."

The red-haired Nord frowned. "She's got to be around here somewhere."

"Check the Flagon."

It was sound advice – or it would have been if Brynjolf hadn't already been in there. He scowled. "She's not out on a heist, is she?"

"No."

That wasn't Mercer. It was a girl's voice – it had to be Agnes.

"I just got back," she explained. "No one saw me, I think. It was really quiet." Of course, that she was returning at all was evidence enough to how her heist went. She'd have been shipped straight back to the orphanage. Brynjolf scowled.

"Mercer, did you send her—"

"You're the one who insisted she'd be an asset. What's there?"

Agnes approached the desk tentatively; she was holding everything so that it wouldn't fall, and she seemed more concerned that she would drop something than she did about having robbed someone or another blind. In fact, Brynjolf couldn't think of anyone short of Maven who had as much in their homes.

"Mercer-"

"He said to sweep Mistveil Keep. I couldn't carry much more than this," she explained. Growling, Brynjolf lifted a bag of something heavy and clinking from her arms. He opened it up – it was filled with pieces of broken picks and trinkets. Gold, silver, loose gems…that bag alone was worth a few hundred septims. She settled some of the stuff onto the table by the exit, admiring her own work.

"Well," Mercer laughed. "Good eye, Brynjolf."

It was the closest to praise that Agnes had ever gotten from Mercer. And, knowing him, it'd be the closest she would get.

* * *

Agnes dreamt back through her heist. She remembered standing outside the doors, shivering and wondering if she could go somewhere else. But, she figured, it would be obvious. Maybe not to her, but if the Thieves' Guild really had the presence she had always heard it did, she'd be in trouble. More trouble than the time she'd snagged a sweet roll from Grelod's desk.

When she did enter the keep, she was glad to see that most of the guards had withdrawn to an inner hallway. That left the front of the keep open to robbery. She didn't find much that she would be able to take, however, and instead she snuck deeper in. Every time she heard a floorboard creak she held her breath. Every time she heard a footstep that wasn't her own, she pressed against the wall and sunk as low as she could.

She was lucky to not be caught. She was lucky that no one saw her. Five times she had been so scared that she nearly loosed a squeak or a shriek. She remembered, faintly, opening the display cases close to the Jarl's room. She remembered stuffing gems into her pockets and running out of room, finding a pouch of coins where she could slip the excess.

Dimly, she remembered, as she left the keep, a man's voice – not a Nord – whispering, "It's never too late to change."

She sprinted back for the guild, but by the time she reached the Cistern's entrance, she was certain that she'd only imagined it.

* * *

When Agnes had nightmares, she awoke with a whimper and clutched her sheets. Most nights she couldn't even remember her nightmares – all she knew was that her heart was racing and she was sweating. Sometimes she remembered them – she remembered an unfamiliar house aflame, her mother screaming, and someone else's arm wrapped around her, pulling her free from a collapsed beam.

That nightmare was the worst, because, even though she knew it never happened, she always had to remind herself.

She sat in her bed, glancing around the Cistern. Unlike other places, at night, the Cistern was a passage. Thieves left, and entered, as needed. They had their own heists to run. Some of the members only left from time to time, instead preferring to train, or rest. Niruin usually stayed behind to practice his shooting. Agnes didn't know why – he already had an amazing aim.

"You're awake? Come over here."

It was Mercer again. Agnes groaned, but got out of bed and approached Mercer at his desk. He was straight-faced, instead of scowling. In fact, Agnes was trying to figure out if that was a straight face, or a smile.

"Here," he said, handing her a small pouch of coins. "Minus the training, the armor, and the weapon."

Agnes squinted – she'd actually forgotten about pay. She grasped the pouch of coins. It was just about the amount she'd had in her stash before Grelod found it. Maybe a little more. She had, she supposed, stolen enough so that Mercer had actually shorted her. But she wasn't in any mood to argue. Instead, she slipped it into the chest at the foot of her bed and sat back against the wall.

She remembered her mother holding her, and stroking her hair, and humming a lullaby with no words. She remembered strong arms and strong hands with the softest touch, rocking her back to sleep. Agnes didn't have that kind of luxury anymore.

After she was certain that she wouldn't be getting back to sleep, she hopped off of her bed and began to practice her sneaking again. It was, to her mind, a pointless exercise compared to the heist she'd completed. As she practiced, she thought less and less about the process of sneaking and more about what she'd even do with the money. She couldn't sample the shops in Riften – Grelod would catch her. All she could do was ask Tonilla.

Lost in her reverie, Agnes forgot to watch her step and crashed into Niruin. He spun, reflex guiding him, and extended a knife. "Oh," he hummed, noticing her. He shook his dagger the way some adults scolded their children. "I hope you don't do that while you're hunting."

"My mistake," Agnes muttered, rubbing her forehead. The knife hadn't fazed her so much – he wouldn't start a fight in the Cistern with Mercer watching. At least he wasn't yelling. "Do we ever do anything else besides train in here?"

"Well," Niruin began, "Sometimes Vipir gets the _good_ mead…Oh…not you. No."

"What's the_ good_ mead?" Agnes asked, faking curiosity. Niruin cursed at this, and Agnes instantly discovered that this was one of the topics that adults weren't supposed to tell kids about. It was _adult_ talk. She would have to ask Brynjolf the next time he tried asking where she got her book, and why she cared so much about it.

The Bosmer seemed to realize that she was just trying to get him flustered, and that it was _working_. "Why don't you pester someone else?"

"I can't. Brynjolf just left, and Rune hasn't come back yet, and Mercer's no fun. And Sapphire said not to talk to Vipir, but she wouldn't tell me why."

"Lovely." Niruin raised a brow at her. "Why don't you bother Thrynn then?"

Agnes pouted. "He's sleeping."

"Well wake him up."

Agnes sighed, then scurried off. Maybe she could ask Vex or Delvin for something to do, or maybe Vekel would have a different book behind the counter.

* * *

Delvin didn't so much spot Agnes as he did time how long it took between the door and his chair. At her constant pace, it was easy to guess. He listened for the creaking of the Cistern door, and once he heard that he started counting. Once he'd reached twenty-four seconds, he turned his head around. Sure enough, Agnes was just barely touching the chair.

"No fair," she pouted.

"Live ain't fair."

"Don't I know it," the small Nord muttered. "I wanted to ask if you had any work I could do."

"Sorry," he said. Brynjolf had made it pretty clear that she wasn't taking work in the city, if only because it obligated her to finish even if things got rough. "I don't."

She frowned, and stood upright. "Just no work, or Brynjolf told you not to?"

Delvin frowned. Under normal circumstances, he would say she was getting overconfident. These were hardly normal circumstances. After the heist she'd pulled at the Keep, Delvin doubted that Brynjolf's concerns were quite warranted. "If you're that bored, you can always go out on your own."

She tilted her head. "I just thought…"

"It's just a guild. Everyone else comes and goes as they please."

"It's just…everyone else is always around."

Delvin raised a brow. No they weren't. Brynjolf wasn't around – Sapphire was out on a heist…or was that what she meant? He laughed. "You mean working."

"Yeah."

"That's life too."

* * *

"You're left-handed."

Agnes blinked at Brynjolf, and then looked back to her hands. She was carrying two daggers this time, at Brynjolf's insistence that she'd do better with two. His arms were lowered, and he was laughing at her bewilderment.

"What do you mean?"

"Your left hand, Lass. You hit harder with your left hand."

"Oh," she murmured. "So…"

Brynjolf shook his head. "Nevermind it Lass, just keep practicing."

She nodded, and took a ready stance. Brynjolf had been teaching her how to fight again, and it was hard work. She was sweating, and her muscles ached, but she preferred it to the boredom of an empty Cistern. As soon as they had both assumed ready stances, it was fair game. Agnes could strike, but in her experience it would lead to being shrugged off.

Brynjolf struck hard and fast, and Agnes stepped back to avoid him. He slashed again, and she ducked past him. He spun after her and slashed at her. She put her daggers out to block his sword, but she was swept aside and knocked down.

"No good Lass," he murmured. "You're not very strong. You need to be quick instead."

"I'm trying," she muttered, getting back on her feet.

Brynjolf snorted. "Stop trying and start succeeding."

"Fine, fine," she mutteed, shaking her head. That was easier said than done – and it was easier when you were a big strong Nord man, accustomed to hunting and fighting. Agnes was small, weak, and unused to anything other than scurrying in the shadows. She was barely a Nord.

"One more time."

It was the fifth time she'd heard that, and she didn't want to hear it again. She scowled, but once again she took her stance. This time she didn't wait for Brynjolf to ready himself. She charged for him, wedged her right-hand knife into the gap left so his arms would be able to move, and held the left-hand blade at his throat. She grinned, at least until she realized that Brynjolf had put his knife at her throat and his sword just aside of her stomach.

"Nice try, Lass. Might'a worked on a bandit or a guard."

"What, were you expecting that?"

"When you can pull it off without staring at your targets, maybe I won't."

The little Nord frowned, running a hand through her hair. It was getting too long, and tangled, and she wanted to get rid of it. "Is that it then?"

Instead of answering her, Brynjolf kicked her legs and forced her to fall, then stabbed at her. She rolled to the side to avoid his blade and hopped up again. He clicked his tongue and smiled. "At least your reflexes are alright, Lass."

"Oh shove off," Agnes spat. "That hurt."

Brynjolf's brow furrowed, and his lip pulled up in anger. Agnes was just as angry, but bowed her head. Part of her expected him to hit her, and relief swept over her when she realized he wouldn't. "I'm not here to baby you, Lass. When you're done bellyaching and ready to train, come find me and ask what a real fight's like."

And with that, Brynjolf left, leaving Agnes alone in the training room. She scowled, leaning against a practice dummy. She regretted snapping at him. Aside from her mother, and Constance, Brynjolf was the only person who ever tried in earnest to help her. He had hurt her, but he'd never hurt her badly during a sparring match. The worst he'd done only left a minor cut or knocked her down.

But she wouldn't tell him she was sorry. She was certain that it would be forgotten within a day.

* * *

Brynjolf hadn't felt like telling her how much worse off she would be in a real fight. He had it in his head that he would really fight her the next time they sparred, but then he reminded himself that he was trying to keep her from getting hurt. He needed time to cool off himself.

He took a seat in the Flagon beside Delvin, pulling a flask out of his belt loop and taking a swig. It was mead. He made a point to cut a hole in any mead barrel he saw while running a heist.

"You look positively cheery, Bryn."

"Not now, Delvin."

"Is it the little girl again?"

Brynjolf took another swig.

"Little fiery, that one."

"Aye," he muttered, "A little too fiery."

Delvin grinned. "Let her out on her own. She gets caught she won't be rushing things."

The Nord exhaled deeply. He had been trying to keep her out of trouble this entire time, but maybe Delvin was right. Maybe a little trouble was exactly what she needed. But there was always the chance of her being shipped back to Honorhall. "I don't know."

"She wants to run heists," Delvin said. "Let me give her a job or two."

It was certainly a thought.

* * *

Agnes avoided Brynjolf for nearly a week. She practiced on her own with her daggers, and worked on her archery. She was not much of an archer – not compared to Niruin – but her aim was improving steadily. She was happy any time she hit the round part of the target, and when she made bull's-eyes she grinned for hours.

When she wasn't working on her skills with weaponry, she returned to sneaking around the Cistern, and her new hobby of brewing potions. Mostly she brewed simple salves and sleeping poisons, rather than anything particularly dangerous. Rune had offered to bring her some flowers on his way back from a heist, and he followed through. So, materials in hand, she was able to crush the blue flowers with blisterwort and water to made a simple salve. She repeated this process quite a few times.

Mercer had scolded her for wasting time, but he hadn't done anything to stop her practicing. Unless she could brew invisibility potions, or strength potions, alchemy was pointless. She ignored him, though, and after a while he stopped caring.

She liked alchemy. It calmed her, and gave her something to focus on. It was meditation. There wasn't much thought to it, but it was just distracting enough to keep her in check. She wasn't thinking about what had happened with Brynjolf, wasn't thinking about why he hadn't scolded her for slacking, and wasn't thinking about how long it was taking for it to blow over.

Until she heard his voice.

"Lass, come here."

She jumped, but continued working. "What?"

"Put it down and come over here."

She grunted, but obeyed. She turned around and walked through to the training room, idly wondering when he'd passed her. As she followed the older Nord, she adjusted her gloves. Part of her expected a fight.

"Alright Lass," he murmured. "You can leave."

"Huh?"

"If you think you can handle it, ask Delvin for a job. Go out on your own."

She blinked. It wasn't what she had expected, but the way he said it she wasn't so sure it was a good thing.

"If not, get back to training."

She scowled – that sounded like a challenge to her. She threw up her hood and walked back towards the entrance. "Fine," she muttered. "I'll be back."

**OK, so like I promised: Agnes is short, wiry, has reddish-blond hair, and brown eyes. Her hair's kind of shorn down most of the time, and when it gets long it's wavy. Yaaaaay. Descriptions.**


	3. Agnes' Folly

Agnes hadn't thought this through. Not at all. It took her a few miles past Shor's Stone to realize it, but she had no plan whatsoever. She should have stopped off to see Delvin, but she hadn't been thinking clearly. She was angry, and she'd crept out of the Cistern without another word. She brought some money with her, but she was terrified that someone would ask where her parents were.

Her stomach was in knots, but the idea of going back was even worse. She had to do something while she was out or she would just look foolish.

She hated to think what Mercer would say if she came back poorer than she was when she left.

As she walked down the roads, no longer concerned that Riften guards would recognize her and have her sent back to Honorhall, she worried what would happen if she was attacked. She was lightly armored, lightly armed, and lightly trained. If anything happened she wasn't sure what she would do.

* * *

On the bed, he saw it: Agnes' book. She'd been keeping it closed around others, even though she read it every night. Brynjolf scowled. She was far too young to have any secrets, much less keep them. He had wondered before, what was really in the book that kept her so interested.

There was a little Mercer on his shoulder telling him to go ahead and flip through that book, and there was a little dead Gallus on the other shoulder, shrugging his shoulders impassively. So he picked it up, leaned against the wall, and flipped open the cover.

There was an ink-stained page at front, one-line notes written, as well as what Brynjolf assumed was a name. Upon flipping through the rest of the book, he found nothing of note. He squinted at the first page once more, huffing when he realized it was not in a language he understood. He closed the book and set it back in her chest.

Whatever her reasons, Brynjolf determined, they were most likely childish and petty.

* * *

It was cold, and Agnes was hungry. She'd walked quite a ways past Shor's Stone, and as far as she was, she was certain that no one would recognize her. She passed by several travelers on the road, and when they had finished staring at her, she sunk into a crouch, trailed behind them until she was close enough to reach their purses, and made off with a pretty septim or so.

It wasn't a total waste, she decided as she counted the money. She'd made a bit more money, as well as picked up a few valuables. A bracelet, a necklace, and a pretty silver ring. The ring had a nice feel to it, like it was enchanted, and so she tied it to a string and wore it as a necklace.

She had traveled quite a ways, until the mountains turned to flatland and hot springs. She was weary of stopping in the springs – the geysers made her very uneasy. She walked until she was too tired to walk any further, and that was when she sat down on a rock. From her vantage point, she could see most of the path she had walked down. It was really quite a ways – she had a new admiration for Vipir's stamina, even though Sapphire had frequently warned her away.

It worried her that it was getting dark so quickly, but she couldn't stop it from happening. The best she could do was find shelter. If, she imagined, she could force herself to keep walking, she would find a small village where she could pause for the night. She had to get her story straight, in case anybody asked. Not "My parents and I got separated." That might lead to guards, which might lead to Grelod.

"My father is going to meet me." That might be a little obvious in a few hours when no one arrived.

"This is my first hunting trip" could work. Agnes was small, but she was twelve years old. That was old enough for most Nords, at least, so Hroar said. So, that settled, she settled down on her rock. She only had a little bit of time before it got too cold, but she needed to rest. As she watched the clouds roll through the sky, she wondered idly if it would snow. Though it was cold in Riften, it rarely snowed. It might be pretty.

She forced herself to continue walking, even though her feet ached and she was winded from carrying the coins and her weapons. She was thankful that she wasn't wearing her guild armor, even though she had tucked it into her knapsack.

It wasn't too long before she reached Kynesgrove, and she crossed her fingers and hoped that there would be an inn. She walked up towards the small establishment, breathing shallowly. Her fingers were the worst – they were just numb.

When she reached the inn – and it was indeed an inn, she stopped at the counter, dropped ten coins on the counter, and said, "I need a room."

"Oh – alright," the innkeeper murmured, accepting the coins. "I'll show you to your room."

Agnes chewed on her tongue as she followed the woman. Although she looked bewildered, she didn't ask any questions, and that was fine with Agnes.

"This is your room. Just give a shout if you need anything."

"Sure."

And Agnes was alone, able to rest, and able to get warm.

* * *

Agnes had a good sleep. No nightmares. Maybe it was because she had gotten so tired that she had slept so well. She even decided to let herself slack off. As far as she was concerned, she'd made enough of a profit that she could return without feeling too foolish, though she was not relishing the idea of hiking quite so far.

It wasn't until she finally got out of bed that she realized that she was absolutely famished. She clutched her stomach, groaned, and walked over to the tavern. She glanced around, surprised to find it empty. No people. She scowled, leaned against the wall, crouched, just in case, and slipped a loaf of bread into her knapsack.

She made sure to check behind the counter for a strongbox, and when she saw it she grinned. She pulled a pick out of her boot, fiddled with it quickly, popped it open, and scooped the contents into her bag. Then she made off without a sound.

She left the inn with a straight face, and not grinning like she'd just scored another hundred septims and a nice-looking amulet. No one stopped her, and no one questioned her.

At least, she thought no one had, until a shriek from the tavern indicated that Agnes probably should have closed the lockbox. Her eyes went wide, and she glanced back up the hill. "Oh no…"

A man rushed into the tavern, presumably to her aid, and Agnes began to walk away. Off the path this time – she couldn't risk someone following her. Before, however, she could stray far enough from the path to make a difference, she heard a man yelling, "Hey, little girl!"

She froze, bit her lower lip, and took a deep breath. She turned around and forced herself to look offended at the terms rather than fearful of being caught.

"Have you seen a thief?"

So he didn't know it was her. She shook her head. "No, I haven't seen anything. Do you think he's still around?"

"I can't say for sure," the man said. "You should come wait at the Tavern."

That set off a warning bell. If she stayed longer, they might figure out that her pack was jingling just a little too much. If she said no, he might be suspicious.

"I'd rather not," she said, as though it was absolutely absurd. "If he's still around, I'd rather get home to my father quickly."

He didn't seem to question it, nodding as though what she had said was reasonable. And not a complete lie. "Well, you'll have a story to tell him when you get back."

Agnes just nodded, and continued to walk south down the path. That was far too close for comfort. Just in case, she checked over her shoulder, trying to look just a little unnerved. No one asked any questions. No one had any second thoughts.

_Score one for Agnes._

* * *

Mercer didn't care that Agnes was gone, but a few members around the guild seemed to care. For some indescribable reason, they'd not only gotten used to her, they'd gotten a little attached. Brynjolf got a little _too_ attached, even though he was the one who told her to leave in the first place. Every day he stopped by the alchemy table and her bed, stared for a few seconds, and moved on to his normal duties. And he did this multiple times each day.

Rune was less subtle. He waited by the door when he wasn't training, asked if she had returned when he came back from jobs, and watched carefully to see if she was making her usual rounds.

And then there was that book of hers. Mercer had been certain that the book had been left on top of her pillow, where she always left it, but it had been moved. He waited patiently for an occasion when the others would not be in the Cistern, and found his chance when Vekel brought out the reserves in celebration of an uncharacteristically good scam on Sapphire's part.

So when everyone else left, Mercer put on his usual unimpressed expression and casually made his way to Agnes' bed. He kicked open her chest. Sure enough, someone had tucked the book away.

Probably Rune, he thought, as he picked it up and flipped through the pages. There was nothing of note in the book itself, but as he flipped back to the cover he noticed a page with blotched ink.

"That's what she wanted."

He turned to that page, quickly scanning through the muddled handwriting. It was in the language of High Rock. Mercer could read it, and he sneered as he read through each note. Proverbs. Some relevant to thievery, some not. Of greater interest was the note at the bottom – which wasn't a note at all.

It was a name, and Mercer committed it to memory before tossing the book back into the chest. He then retired to the Flagon to grab some _real_ mead.

* * *

It was worse than getting lost. She was trapped.

She had, of course, been paying close attention to her surroundings, but that was exactly how she had been trapped in the first place. She'd paid attention to her surroundings, noticed some very large, intimidating men who stumbled when they walked and stunk of ale and skooma, and sprinted a little too quickly. She had seen a cave, and decided that it would be a good place to hide.

It was not. The men entered, and that was the beginning of her entrapment.

"Twenty septims on this one."

"How much for a shot of skooma?"

"Fifty septims!"

"Your on!"

Their voices were loud and wild – more like the sounds of an angry bear than the sounds of celebrating men. Worse still, more men entered the cave, and Agnes found herself unable to escape. She watched the growing horde of men as they laughed and cheered, and then she heard an inhuman growl.

It was inhuman because it belonged to a canine instead. The men had gathered around a gated area, and Agnes quickly realized that things would get very, very bloody. Her eyes widened in horror as the men loosed two wolves upon each other. The fight was bloody, each wolf tearing at the other's throats. Neither was a pretty sight to begin with, and the spray of blood only made it even harder to ignore.

The animals were thin like draugr and patchy-furred. They snarled and cried with every bite, and Agnes couldn't even look away to see the open entrance. The men laughed, and she wondered how they could even stand such a gruesome sight.

She didn't even notice the sob bubbling in her throat until it was too late. While most of the men were laughing to raucously to hear her, one big, bare-chested Orc with a long scar across his chest _did _hear her. And he stormed up towards her.

"Well what do we have here?"

Agnes blinked back tears – this was worse than anything Grelod had ever said or done. She didn't have to think twice about whether she would take the old hag over this group of terrors.

She barely registered what she was doing, even as the Orc reached for her. She drew her right-hand knife in one quick motion, and jammed it into his wrist. He howled with pain and struck blindly for her, and she found she had just enough time to duck between his legs and jam her knife into the small of his back. He fell over, and that was when she started to run.

The men stopped laughing. Now they were shouting.

Agnes sprinted as quickly as she could, cursing that her bag weighed her down as it did. No matter how hard she tried, there was no to evade those bandits and still make it back to Riften. Unless, of course, she could reconcile with being in pieces.

She heard a roar of flames and stumbled forward. She was certain that she would die.

* * *

He was only returning from a delivery to Mistveil Keep. Simple things that Wylandriah had ordered from the College, like spare soul gems. After waiting through such a boring, nonsensical lecture about something Thiabault didn't care to remember, his mood was in sour at best.

He wasn't sure where the little brown-haired girl had come from, but that was secondary. He'd quickly loosed a powerful flame wall between the men and the girl.

"Run along," he said rather cheerfully, considering the anger flaring up inside of him. "Wouldn't want to be spit-roasted, now would you boys?"

Savos would likely be very, very unhappy with Thiabault if he set the Rift aflame, so he made sure to switch to a frost spell. The men seemed to muster enough courage to break through, certain that they could kill a single mage. What a mistake.

He blew a wild blast of ice across the men – and while it smothered the flames, it also left an unhealthy skin of ice on top of each man. "Don't try my patience. Get out, or I'll kill all of you."

It almost saddened him to see the men flee, but he tucked his hands into his pockets and took a deep breath. He watched the men run, and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry if I frightened you, little one. You should be more—"

He glanced to his side, but the girl was gone.

* * *

Agnes hadn't stuck around to see what that mage would do. Whatever it was, she was certain it was horrible and involved necromancy. Mages were scary. Sometimes mages passed through town, but they never used their magic in case the guards got mad at them.

She ran as quickly as she could, up the mountain, until she lost her footing and slipped. Her ankle twisted, and she released a silent scream.

She sobbed, and cried, and prayed to all Nine Divines that she'd be able to get back to the Cistern. Her bag had stuck on top of a rock, and she couldn't pull herself far enough to reach it. She'd tucked enough potions in there to last a week, but none of that mattered if she couldn't reach it. She was stuck, once again.

* * *

Niruin was hunting. He'd done enough heists to leave him content, and now he wanted to go out for some real practice. Instead of shooting at targets, he was hunting hares. He'd already gotten a nice string of them over his left shoulder, but he'd been hunting for quite some time, and he'd gotten quite a ways from home. It was time to return, he decided.

That was when he heard a shriek, and a series of sobs. Part of him warned him to ignore it, but somewhere, deep down, he felt an ounce of pity and crept towards the source of the noise.

He saw a knapsack near a cliff, and he smiled to himself. Well, he could certainly treat himself.

"Help!"

He had almost forgotten about that. Well, he was certain he could rob whoever it was.

"Thank Mara it's you—"

He paused. Looking closely, he saw the little, pale girl clutching a thin tree for dear life. Her hair was tawny, and hung over her eyes like a sheepdog. He recognized her right away. Acting quickly, he crouched low enough to slide down the slope without overshooting, and held out his arm. "Agnes…what happened?"

"Later," she sobbed, grabbing his hand with her right hand and his arm with her left. "I need my pack."

He hauled her up the slope, grunting himself. She sobbed more, even when he got her to a safer spot and tossed her bag to her. "What happened?"

"I fell."

"I can see that – you've been gone for quite a while. How badly are you hurt?"

"Bad," she snapped, pulling a salve out of her bag. She fumbled with the cork, but she was able to get it free and empty it onto her ankle. His attention drawn to her injury, Niruin realized how badly she was injured. Her ankle had snapped. She'd need a lot more than a salve to fix it.

Still, whatever she was rubbing onto her ankle, it was bringing the swelling down, and quelling her.

"I don't suppose you can walk," he murmured. "I doubt I can carry you back."

"Please don't leave me," she whispered.

Niruin took a deep breath. If he hurried, he could tell Brynjolf what had happened, and show him where she was. But in her state, there was no telling if someone else, or something else, would come. In her condition, she'd be easy prey for an animal. Or a person.

"Just hide me by the docks or something," she pled. "Please…"

That was sounder advice. "Alright," he consented. "Close your bag. I'll take you as far as I can."

* * *

As far as Niruin could was very close. He set her down outside the walls, assured her that he would return with help, and hurried inside. It was night, it was cold, and Agnes only hoped that he would hurry.

It only took a few minutes.

"There she is."

Brynjolf had come, along with Thrynn. Niruin was nearby, but not at the forefront of the group.

"I'm going to the Cistern," his voice hummed. "If you need me, just call."

"Of course," Brynjolf murmured. He bent down in front of Agnes. "How bad are you hurt, Lass?"

"Pretty bad."

He hooked an arm around her, and she flinched. She hated being touched. "You have to stay quiet. Can you do that?" he asked, lifting her. Something jingled, and he realized that she was holding a bag.

"Yes," she mumbled.

Brynjolf nodded to Thrynn, who held the door as Brynjolf crept through. Agnes barely remembered what happened inside the city, until they reached the graveyard. Thrynn went ahead far enough to open the door, then the man hole. He went ahead, and Brynjolf carefully switched her between his own arms to Thrynn's.

Thrynn took her to her bed, laid her down as gently as he could, and set her bag beside her. "Are you alright?"

"I've been better," Agnes laughed. "Where's my book?"

"I put it in your chest," Brynjolf said, coming closer. "Niruin said your ankle was hurt. Let me see.'

Agnes gritted her teeth. "It's my right ankle."

Brynjolf tugged lightly at her shoe, and Agnes hissed. "Sorry Lass, it's gotta come off. It'll hurt."

She wailed as he forced the boot off of her foot—even completely unlaced, unbuckled, and otherwise unrestrained, her foot was so swollen that Brynjolf gave up and pulled out a knife. He sawed it lose around her ankle and slipped it from her foot. Thrynn whistled.

"It's really bad, Lass."

"I know, I know," she sobbed. "I used some of my potions and salves but that only made it stop hurting."

"I have to put it back in place," he warned. "It's going to hurt."

Agnes sobbed, and sniffed, and wiped away her tears. "I know…I know…just get it over with."

* * *

She stopped crying after a while, which was good. It made it a lot easier to stomach Agnes' presence. He had thought that he would yell at her, but instead he was glad that her foot wasn't so bad it couldn't heal. Mercer was irritated.

"She wastes all that time so she can come back and be a nuisance," he growled. "Just let them ship her back."

Brynjolf had brushed him off. They weren't sending her back. "Trust me Mecer, she learned her lesson."

He grunted, and walked away.

Brynjolf returned to Agnes later that night. She'd settled into bed, at least, and calmed slightly. He settled down on the bed beside her own, and glanced at her. She was covered in sweat – she was probably a little ill. "So Lass?"

Agnes glanced over to Brynjolf, and then returned to staring at the ceiling. "I pickpocketed some people and got all the way to Kynesgrove. I stayed the night, and when I came back…" she paused, and Brynjolf thought he could imagine what happened. She got spooked by something and slipped. "These men started chasing me…and this mage…I think he saved me. I don't know. I ran away."

"Did you get caught stealing?"

"No," Agnes murmured. "They scared me, so I hid…and…"

The way her voice wavered, Brynjolf didn't want to know. "It's alright. You don't have to say anything else."

"Some of the things I stole…I stole some jewelry and stuff…Tonilla can fence it, right?"

Brynjolf laughed. "One thing at a time, Lass."

"Right," she muttered. "One thing at a time."

**And thus, Agnes' ego takes a hit. Ahahahah...ahaha...ahhhh... Yeah, my poor, poor characters. Lucky for the ones in the game, none of this is actually possible. None of it. How sad.  
**


	4. Stages of Healing

**This is a comparatively short chapter, but some of it was very fun to write. I'm trying to keep some of the fluff down...unless it's funny. If it's funny then of course it's staying. :I**

"How long until I can get out of bed?" Agnes groaned impatiently.

Brynjolf laughed. "You spent all night crying over your ankle, and now you want to walk around? Just wait, Lass."

"But—" Brynjolf gave her a warning stare. One that reminded her exactly how she'd gotten into that predicament anyway. She pouted. "OK, OK…I don't like this. I can't even get to my trunk from here."

"You should have considered that before you went and broke your leg."

"I didn't break my leg. I just twisted my ankle."

"And dislocated one of the bones in your leg."

"Right. It didn't break," Agnes reasoned, propping herself up on her elbows. "And besides. It doesn't hurt now. I bet I can walk just fine."

The older man smirked wryly, and Agnes blinked dumbly. "Alright, Lass, how much?"

"Huh? I didn't _really—"_

"So you don't think you can walk?"

"No, I do—"

"Then care to put your money where your mouth is?"

Agnes tilted her head. She knew what it meant, but she wasn't going to risk paying him to watch her fall over. She changed the subject quickly. "What does that even mean?"

"Oh you know what it means."

Usually, when Agnes played dumb and pretended not to know what some idiom or another meant, Brynjolf fell for it and either told her what it meant or told her to ignore it. Either he was catching on, he'd heard her say it before, or she was less convincing than she thought. In that case, she would have to work on her coercion.

"Five septims," she said.

"Twenty."

"Ten—oh you sneaky bastard," she growled, realizing what he was doing. If nothing else, she knew that to haggle she needed to be firm. At least with Brynjolf. _He_ was the con artist. She was just a pair of big brown eyes and quick hands.

"Fifteen."

"Nuh-uh. Ten."

Brynjolf smirked. "I thought you said you'd be able to walk? It'd be an easy few septims for you."

"And I thought _you_ said those bottles were filled with some miracle cure that'd grow back missing limbs," Agnes countered, causing him to laugh. She smiled too. "Ten."

"Alright, Lass, ten it is. Now get up."

She took a deep breath before she swung her legs around until they hovered just inches above the floor. Agnes did not relish the idea of putting too much weight on her bad ankle and prolonging her stay in the sick bed. Putting most of the pressure on her left ankle, and barely touching her right foot on the ground, she stood. "There. I can stand just fine."

"Alright, Lass," Brynjolf laughed. "Then walk."

She paled, but turned just a little. She managed to limp a few steps away from the bed without causing herself more than a little discomfort.

"You don't look so good Lass," he taunted, standing and following. Agnes had a feeling he was waiting for her to fall so he could catch her, but she didn't want him to catch her and she didn't want any help. "Don't fall now…wouldn't want to owe me fifteen—"

"Ten," she snapped, putting her foot down. Unfortunately, it was her bad foot. She instantly hissed in pain and brought her leg up to her chest, stumbling back into Brynjolf. "Ow, ow, ow…"

Brynjolf muttered something Agnes couldn't hear as he caught her under the arms. He hoisted her up off of the ground and carefully sat her back down on the bed. "By Oblivion, Lass…"

"Fine, fine," she hissed, wiggling back into a comfortable position. "I can't walk very well. I should have a potion or something in my trunk," she offered. "That'd help, right?"

"Aye Lass. I'll just help myself to fifteen—"

"Ten!"

He laughed. "Ten septims."

"I'm counting," she insisted.

* * *

Rune found it highly amusing that Agnes didn't even need her book to read it. She had it memorized, and was able to recant the tale with appropriate inflection…and "lunatic" voices for Moresby.

"Prop a rock. Come, Mother Chance," she repeated. "Chance had not been listening to much of Ulstyr's babbling, but when he said "Chance," she was startled."

"Don't you ever get bored of reading the same book?" Rune asked, using his dagger to saw a loaf of bread in half.

"Never!" Agnes exclaimed, wide-eyed. "It's my favorite book."

"How many books have you even read?"

"Um…" Agnes pursed her lips and held out her hands, mouthing the names of titles as she checked them off on her fingers. Finally, she was left with seven fingers. "Seven! And I've read some notes—"

"You don't read enough to have a favorite book."

The small Nord scowled. "That was my favorite book before I could read."

"Why?"

"It was my—" she paused, looking as though she were determining whether or not he would be told. Rune raised a brow, leaning back against the wall as he finally cut through the bread. He held out a piece to her, and she took it, still paused. "It's _my_ book. From my mother's house."

He had a feeling she wasn't telling him something, but he supposed it wasn't his business.

Agnes took a break from her story-telling to gnaw on the bread, glancing up at him from time to time as though she wanted to ask him a question. Each time, she glanced away, pursing her lips (when she wasn't chewing) and generally looking guilty.

"What's on your mind?"

"For many days, Chance screamed and screamed, as she tried to find a way out of the room," Agnes continued solemnly. "For some days after that, she listened dully to the laughter of Sheogorath within her own head. Two months later, when Ulstyr returned, she was dead. He used a rock to prop open the door and remove the gold."

"Charming…"

Agnes laughed softly. "I like finished stories. Leaving things half-done bothers me."

Rune sighed. "I know the feeling."

He picked off the last hunk of bread, gulped it down, and went off to train.

* * *

When Agnes' ankle stopped its incessant throbbing and aching, and she'd drank nearly all of her potions and stayed in bed for two days straight, she was able to walk again. She wasn't quite able to sneak or fight, but it was a good start. No longer confined to her bed, she was able to pester people. And avoid them.

Mercer, as usual, was the worst. His scowl was perpetual, and his mood never seemed to waver. She had seen him smile and laugh a few times, but they were always fleeting expressions. When he walked by her, he'd either ignore her completely, scowl and throw some backhanded insult at her, or openly berate her. Thankfully, he usually ignored her.

Vipir she avoided because others told her to. It was less about him being mean and more about what Agnes assumed was a tendency to boast about…adult things. She overheard him from time to time, and usually his tales were met with groans and rolling eyes.

Niruin didn't seem to _want_ to talk with Agnes, so she had no way to thank him for saving her. Just as well, she thought, because she would rather forget it ever happened than have it hang over her head forever.

There wasn't much to do in the Cistern at all, so she usually limped over to the Flagon to see if Tonilla'd gotten any books mixed up in her merchandise. It was unlikely, but possible. Twice she'd been met with some run-of-the-mill storybook that had gotten confused with something of greater value, like a spell book.

Agnes had asked Tonilla if she could smuggle in a spell book, but the answer was a curt, "No."

"Why not?" she had asked.

"You couldn't afford it."

"Sure I could – when my leg's better I can—"

"And you'd blow up the Cistern."

Though it was insulting to be thought so lowly of, Agnes accepted this. It would just have to be one of those things she would take up when she was older. She would be lying if she claimed not to have retrospective envy for the mage, who had easily dispatched and scared off a good seven or eight men. Magic seemed useful.

She sat at a table with her copy of _Chance's Folly_, trying to decipher the notes on the blank first page. She supposed she could ask Delvin for another translation but he might figure out that her mother didn't speak whatever language was on the pages. She would have to learn on her own.

She mouthed the second phrase, not understanding a word.

* * *

He'd finally gotten used to there being a child in the Cistern. At long last, he could fully ignore her, unless of course he felt like throwing a job at her. Brynjolf had insisted that he hold off until she was able to walk – and more importantly fight.

And then he saw her reading the book, even though she would recite entire passages from memory. It was infuriating, for reasons that even he couldn't comprehend.

On the fifth day since her return, he approached her and snatched the book out of her hands. Once again she panicked, reaching for it and glaring daggers at him when he held it over his head.

"Not this again," she quipped.

"If you have time to read, you have time to make yourself useful."

"Brynjolf said—"

"Brynjolf is _second," _Mercer reminded her. It felt as though any time he told her to do something, something Brynjolf said was her defense. It was disgusting. "Take a job or start training."

He sneered, but tossed the book back at her. Then, with horrid pronunciation, she read, "Il faut etre matelot avant de'etre capitaine."

He scowled, and returned to his desk. She was reading those damn proverbs. _Have to run before walking…bah…_

* * *

Vipir honestly had no idea why Agnes always avoided him. If he sat at the table, she waited to see if he would leave before excusing herself. At least it left him free to relay the tale of how Vipir the Valiant bedded four women on the same night!

Although since that last heist, everyone had been calling him Vipir the Fleet instead.

Still, she stormed into the training room with a scowl, and he lowered his sword briefly to see if anything she did was affecting him. Instead of picking up her dagger, she plopped down in front of the training chests and pulled out a pick. He went back to work.

He expected her to be quiet back there, but he soon heard a stirring. Apparently she'd already picked one of the simpler locks. He went back to whacking the training dummies.

He expected the next lock to at least warrant some cursing from her, but instead he heard another stirring as she pulled a shiny new dagger out of the chest. Some idiot tried keeping their things in there again, didn't they…

The next lock was undone just as quickly, which shocked Vipir. That was when he put his swords away and approached. "What are you doing back here?"

"Mercer yelled at me for reading," she mumbled. "So I'm picking locks. Some idiot keeps leaving stuff in here."

She started to work on the hardest chest, and Vipir watched. She put the pick in, angled it, and twisted the chest. It opened.

"How did you—"

"It's the same lock every time," she said flatly. "Goodbye."

And there was her usual avoidance.

* * *

It was Agnes' birthday, and she wouldn't tell a soul. No one had ever cared before, and she doubted that anyone ever would. Even in the guild, she would pretend it was just another day. She was going to celebrate by pulling her first shill job.

Brynjolf had made some quip or another about her battling grass and gentle slopes, and Agnes had told him to go jump in the lake.

The job would be very quick, since her target's home was so close to the graveyard entrance, but at least Agnes could say she was doing a job. She was getting stir-crazed. Anything to get her out of the Cistern would be a relief.

When she crept outside, it was a cloudy day, and she was certain that it would rain. Her mark would most likely be at the Bee and Barb anyway.

Her target was Aerin. She wasn't entirely sure why they were targeting him, but she didn't much care. As she had learned, a lot of nice people didn't get along with the guild. It was a matter of priority—Madesi had been nice, but so had the prospect of a hundred septims. There was no place for personal bias in Guild work.

As she crept along the wall, she glanced around. The guards never patrolled behind those houses, but there was no telling if that Snow-Shod lady would come by to pray. She ran her hand along the fences as she passed, and the wall of the house when she was just a little closer. There were guards at the gate, but they were distracted, talking to a traveler rather than actually watching.

She approached the entrance to Aerin's house, staying close to the wall. Pulling a pick from behind her ear, she fiddled with the lock. It was not such a difficult lock – she'd gotten very good at picking locks since joining the guild. She got the door open and slipped inside the house.

Inside the house she was able to find an appropriate chest and tuck the stolen trinket into a corner, where it looked poorly hidden. It was a very quick job, just as Vex had said. A little disappointed, Agnes approached the door. She paused, her hand on the door knob, when she heard Maul's voice.

"_There's gonna _be_ trouble."_

"_I'm not afraid of you,"_ a voice said. Agnes recognized it. It was the mage. It had to be the mage. His voice wavered, but it wavered in laughter. Either he was powerful, or stupid. Or both.

She didn't wait for them to finish talking. It would be easier to slip out if no one saw her, and they wouldn't see her if they were too distracted. She slipped out, followed her path back towards the Ratway, and stopped in the alley. She had to get a good look at the mage.

Thankfully, his hood was down, and she was able to get a good look. His hair was a tawny red, his cheeks lifted. His face was round – she supposed he was a Breton. His nose was round but hooked, like a beak. Agnes pursed her lips. She had expected a very old man, but he didn't even look middle-aged.

She turned to leave, sneaking back towards the tomb.

She wasn't even at the graveyard when she heard a voice.

"Why so nervous?"

Agnes' heart skipped a few beats. Her breath hitched. She didn't scream, didn't even let out a pitiful squeak like she thought she would. She was so scared she expected to vomit. Instead, she turned around, stood up straight, and said, "You're the mage from the road."

"I thought you looked familiar," he said. "I take it you're alright?"

"Yeah," she muttered. "It was my first hunting trip and I killed one of their wolves."

"You were hunting alone?"

"Of course," she said, offended. "I can handle wolves and deer."

"Bears?"

She pursed her lips as though thinking about it. Unconsciously, she began to ponder how a battle between her and a bear would turn out. Most likely it wouldn't turn out well. "Maybe. I've never seen a bear up close."

He laughed jovially. "Awful creatures. You should get home – I'm certain your parents are looking for you."

Agnes blinked, and quickly remembered that to most adults, children alone were children searching for their parents, or waiting to return at the end of the day. Most adults wouldn't know an urchin just by their look. "I was visiting my mother's grave."

"I'm sorry," he said, shifting uncomfortably. "You have my condolences. What was her name?"

"Hjordis," she said truthfully. She waved to the mage and returned to the graveyard, and then sat against the grave. The mage looked to her, and then away, as though ashamed.

"I've business to attend to…take care, little girl."

She looked up. "Agnes."

He coughed, rose a hand to wave off her concern, and said, "Thibault."

She watched as the mage left, and quietly returned to the Cistern.

* * *

"How did your job go, Lass?" Brynjolf asked. "I thought I heard talking up there—"

"You did," Agnes said. "That was the mage. He's not from Riften, I don't think. He didn't know me."

"He didn't catch you of course?"

"No," she said with a scowl. "No one saw me break in or leave, and no one was in the house."

The older Nord smiled as though relieved, but sternly admonished, "Don't get too friendly now. You never know, he might ask around. Next time you meet he may try to bring you to Grelod."

Agnes shuddered, and started walking towards the Flagon. Brynjolf followed along, being oddly conversational as far as he went. At the door, he placed a hand on her shoulder and she flinched. He either didn't notice or didn't care. "Who's Hjordis?"

"My mother," she said. "She was buried in that graveyard."

"No lies?"

"Not this time."

She returned to Vex, leaving Brynjolf to his devices.

**Thanks to everyone who read this much. I'd still, of course, appreciate reviews, especially critique.**


	5. Spy

**Thank you Anon, because I had absolutely no idea that I did that. I fixed it. Also some wording in chapter two. **

In the next month, Agnes ran a job nearly every day. She worked, despite Brynjolf's assurances, in Riften, because they already knew she was careful enough to keep from getting caught. If she operated in the shadows, the simple jobs were easy. The guards saw the flicker of a thief and knew not to bat an eye. They didn't see the missing orphan, because they never looked past her hood.

As a result, she had more coin than she knew what to do with. It wasn't much use to have so much money when she had nothing to do with it. Now that her work was frequent, and her injuries rare, Mercer stopped glaring at her. Brynjolf said that meant he respected her, at least somewhat.

Agnes was thinking about taking a page out of Rune's book and trying to track down her father, but she stopped when she remembered the things her mother had always said. Her father was no good, and a little insane. He was just a charmer.

Agnes supposed her mother might have similar things to say about her, now that she'd been so involved in the guild.

Every now and then, Brynjolf relayed the rumors to her – Agnes was spirited away. No one had seen her in months. Maybe she wandered out of the city when no one was looking and got herself killed.

Agnes doubted that anyone would even recognize her. Her hands bore the subtle scars of her practice, her lips scarred from all the chewing she did when she thought someone might see her. Her hair had gotten longer, and instead of sheering it down she tied it back and blindly braided it. It was a very short braid, and every now and again she'd be teased for even bothering. She was no good at braiding hair.

The people in the guild recognized her, of course, because she was still so small. So small, and yet she'd grown at least a few centimeters since joining. She was still a thin, wiry child, but she didn't look like she'd be blown over by a light breeze anymore.

She settled into a chair in the Flagon with a new book. She was going to read _Thief_ until she could recite the whole book.

"Hello there Lass."

She gave Brynjolf a nod, lightly chewing on her lip.

"Which book is that?"

She grinned. "Guess."

"Not so fond of guessing, Lass," he laughed, nevertheless answering, "Beggar?"

"Thief," she said. "Close."

"Very fitting."

Agnes smiled as she continued reading.

* * *

Rune was out on a job of his own. There'd been a mage that Mercer wanted information on, so his job was less grab-and-go and more coercion and shadows. He'd gotten through under the guise of checking the runes around his neck, which he had done years ago to no avail. First, he had to find his mark.

"It's very interesting," he heard. "Dwemer Ruins are remarkably well-perserved—we should run excavations from time to time."

"We do, Thibault, but there just aren't any nearby."

"Shame," he mumbled. "But you could always send me – I like travelling—"

"You can always travel on your own."

"I'd like to bring a—"

"They would have to consent."

"Damn."

Rune listened, casually leaning against a wall. It was easy to eavesdrop if you made yourself blend in, look as though you were exactly where you belonged.

"Thibault, you can't bring one of your lady friends either—"

"No," he said, exasperated. "I didn't want to bring a lady friend—"

"We'll talk later…one of the Apprentices is on fire—"

"Oh dear…"

Rune held back a laugh. Thibault was his target, and it sounded more like he belonged in the guild than in the College of Winterhold.

* * *

"Delvin, do you have any jobs outside of Riften?"

The aforementioned Breton blinked. Agnes wanted to leave? After what happened last time? "Is this really such a good idea—"

"Do you?"

He cursed. Agnes was stubborn as an ass when she put her mind to something. He shook his head in exasperation and opened his bottle of mead. "Ask Brynjolf."

And thus, Delvin realized, he had initiated the age-old tradition of children going between their parents for the answers they wanted.

* * *

Mercer had no idea why Agnes was approaching her desk, face steeled and fists clenched. It was actually kind of funny, since her face was round and her cheeks puffed out indignantly. He hadn't even told her no yet.

"I want a job outside of Riften."

Ah. _That_ explained a lot.

He smirked wryly. "Didn't Brynjolf say—"

"Don't you always tell me that Brynjolf's second? I want a job outside of Riften."

On one hand, she'd been making the guild, and thus Mercer, some decent profits. On the other hand, they'd agreed to keep her within the city. "Did you even ask Brynjolf?"

"No," she said flatly, "And I'm not going to. If I have to go out on my own I'll go out on my own. I want a job to run."

"Fine," he said, shrugging his shoulders as he glanced back to the ledger on his desk. "I'll let Delvin and Vex know."

Agnes' lips pressed together, and she gave a curt, business-like nod. As she walked away, he rolled his eyes. "On one condition."

She stiffened, and Mercer smirked. "Training room. Now."

* * *

Agnes hadn't spent much time in the training room, aside from the occasional spar with Brynjolf, Rune, or Thrynn. She'd never gone in there with Mercer before, and she vaguely wondered if he was going to check on her. He never had before. He'd never cared.

"What's in that book of yours?"

"Words," she said. From the look Mercer shot her, Agnes realized he meant the inner pages. "That's none of your business."

"Whose book is it?"

"My mother's," she said. She would keep up that lie. She'd never told anyone otherwise, and so she wasn't concerned that he would see through the lie.

And then Mercer was the first. "No it isn't. There's a man's name on the inner cover."

"You read my book?!"

"It's not your book."

She stiffened. She didn't want to tell anyone, least of all Mercer, why she cared about a long-gone, good-for-nothing son of a bitch. But she hadn't been able to decipher anything on the inner cover, so she wouldn't even know that there was a man's name on the inside. She knew the book was her father, just like the boots beside her mother's trunk. She didn't know that he'd signed it.

"You stole it from someone. Do you even know who?"

"No, I didn't steal it," she snapped. "It was my mother's and then she died. So it's mine."

"I guess you don't want a job outside of Riften."

Agnes stiffened again. "You can't stop me from going."

"Don't make me laugh – you've been asking for permission all morning."

She couldn't lie out of this one. Mercer, apparently, was a master of telling when he was being lied to. And so she chewed lightly on her lip as Mercer turned to leave the training room. She could let him have the last word, or she could give in. There wasn't much else to say. "Fine. It was my father's."

"Are you lying?"

"No."

"What was your father's name?"

"I don't know."

"What did he look like?"

"He left just after I was born."

Mercer stopped, leaning against the doorway. "You're lying."

She wasn't. "I don't care if you think I'm lying. I just want that job."

"Rune's in Winterhold, getting information on your father. He killed a few Guild members a while back, harasses the Black Briars, and he keeps returning to Riften. Maven wants him out."

"I don't know his name—"

"You have the book," Mercer said as he rolled past the doorway. "Figure it out."

* * *

Brynjolf didn't understand why Agnes had wanted to leave. She'd done a good job keeping her mouth shut about it, because he didn't even know that she was leaving. He was furious at first – they'd agreed to have her stay in Riften until she was able to take at least some of the other members in a sparring match, but now she was going all the way to Winterhold.

He'd yelled at Mercer, who had impassively shrugged him off and told him, "She's been reading that book because it was her father's, not her mother's."

Brynjolf hadn't thought much about it – but he supposed that made sense. Still… "What's that got to do with anything?"

"Her father's that Thibault mage. I sent her to meet up with Rune."

"She—you…"

"What?"

Brynjolf rolled his shoulders and crossed his arms. He furrowed his brow as he thought about it. He'd seen that mage. Agnes said the mage had saved her life – hopefully Mercer hadn't sent her on a mission just so she could botch it up. "She's not ready. I'll go get her."

"No one's stopping you Bryn," Mercer said. "If you want to waste time hunting a street rat, be my guest. She's _your_ problem anyway."

* * *

Agnes had hitched a ride on a carriage, certain that it would be faster. The driver didn't know who she was, and she said that she was going to visit her father in Winterhold. It was an oddly truthful excuse. The driver didn't seem to mind, and, since she had the coin, she was able to pay for the ride. It took about two days to reach Winterhold, and once there she was left with a conundrum: she had no plan to get into the college.

She settled in at the tavern briefly, happy to see another child. She hadn't even seen anyone her own age in months, and it was nice. She didn't get the girl's name, but she put back the septims she'd picked from her pockets.

In a little under an hour, the door opened, and she glanced up. It was Rune, and his eyes went wide. "Agnes—"

"Hi!" she chirped, greeting him like most children would greet an older brother. She gave him a hug, and he hugged her back if only to keep up the façade. She murmured, into his chest because she couldn't reach his ear, "Mercer sent me."

"Oh—oh. Let's go for a walk."

As soon as they left the Tavern, and got out of earshot of some guards, Rune snapped, "What was Mercer thinking sending you up here? You brought money, right? You don't look too cold but—"

"I asked for a job outside of Riften. He sent me here."

Rune didn't like this idea, shaking his head and insisting that she didn't need to be outside of Riften, that she was good as a thief but as a fighter she would get ripped to pieces. "You should have been patient—"

She scowled. "Well I'm here now, and this is something Maven wants done, so you're stuck with me."

* * *

Rune didn't like the idea of bringing Agnes along, but he was stuck with her. And, lest she get bored and rob everyone blind, incite a riot, and blow his cover, he had to bring her along. They were just lucky that they had a little resemblance, that they looked like they could be brother and sister. That was the story they told the innkeeper, and when they entered the college he made light conversation with Faralda so Agnes could sneak ahead and hide by the gate.

Inside the College, she stayed hidden while Rune multitasked. He shifted between eavesdropping on Thibault and asking about his necklace, but no one had any new ideas as to what they might mean. At least the trip wasn't a total waste of time.

And then things took a turn for the _worst_ when Thibault left and Rune lost track of Agnes. He scowled, and swore, and asked around, but no one had seen a little girl with a short braid. The only person they'd seen leaving the city was a mage in hooded robes, sporting a heavy gray knapsack.

* * *

Thibault had a feeling he was being watched, but he couldn't put his finger on it. It made him intensely nervous. This was why he avoided Conjuration – he was certain that if he summoned anything stronger than a sword that its eyes would forever haunt him.

He was traveling to Windhelm to deliver a message to Wuunferth, as well as an invitation to come and give a few lectures. He didn't thing anyone would be interested in what he was doing.

He stopped to set up camp for the night about halfway from Windhelm, tucking himself into a hollow filled with mushrooms. Protected from the wind, he started a fire and began to read.

From his cozy position, he could hear breaths. He watched the area they came from, but he didn't see anything. Finally he decided to check, dropping his book and rushing to the source, his hands flooding with magicka. "Who's there?"

It was the little girl, the one he'd seen in Riften, going to pray at her mother's grave. He frowned at the little girl and dropped his hands. "Agnes, was it? What are you doing here?"

"Sorry," she mumbled. "I…"

She didn't seem to have an answer, and he didn't pry. He thought to himself – she couldn't be related to the Hjordis he knew, because she would have to be far more boisterous. Hjordis had never been so timid.

"It's alright," he said. "It's cold. You should wait by the fire."

He tried to ask her questions, but she didn't answer any of them. "What are you doing so far from home?"

No answer.

"Don't you have any family?"

No answer.

Finally, "What about the orphanage? They'd give you shelter—"

"Absolutely not," she snapped. "Anyone who suggests the orphanage has never been inside."

He was quiet, at first, guilt washing over him. She couldn't be his. He wasn't ready for children back then, and he still wasn't ready. "What's so bad about it?"

She scowled, and paused. Maybe it wasn't so bad. Maybe it was just lonely, and maybe she just wanted a family again. And then she pulled off her glove and rolled up her sleeve. Thibault stared – she had horrible scars on her wrist, and milder scars all up her arm. After a few seconds, she slipped her glove back on and rolled down her sleeve. "Grelod did that to me."

His brow furrowed. He'd never been so angry in his life. He tried telling himself that she wasn't his, she was someone else's, and how dare they leave her in such a place.

"How did you get to Winterhold?"

"I hitched a ride with a carriage. I said I was meeting my father but I don't even know him."

"What happened to him?"

"Ma said the good-for-nothing bastard left as soon as I was born," she said, pursing her lips. "I never met him."

"I…"

He considered telling her about the Hjordis he knew, about the pretty, blond-haired woman he'd married and left out of fear. He didn't want to settle down, but when he thought about it, neither did she. Hjordis was the last person he'd imagine settling down, rocking a baby, and singing a lullaby. Shooting arrows into the roaring mouths of bears, oh yes. But not being motherly.

"Do you remember your mother at least?"

"I loved her," she said. "She said when I turned thirteen she'd let me hunt, but she died when I was ten."

Three years in an orphanage, collecting those scars.

"I went out on my own…I think the people in Riften think I'm dead. I got out of the orphanage. I'm not going back."

Maybe, he thought, she _was _like her mother.

* * *

Agnes didn't know when she had fallen asleep, but when she woke up she was leaning against Thibault, and he was reading aloud from a book. It wasn't a book that she'd ever read, and though she didn't know where it began, she wanted desperately to hear where it would end.

"Are you also going to Moliva?' asked Prolyssa, one of the Breton women, after we had made our introductions. 'I don't know what that is,' I replied. 'I'm seeking a domestic position with the Duchess of Woda."

She listened. Like _Chance's Folly_, it was a very grim tale. This was her father, and even though she'd tried to get him to confess, he hadn't said a word. He knew a Hjordis. He'd stiffened when she introduced herself. He rarely used her name.

And she was forgetting her mission. She was supposed to spy on him. Find some way to keep him out of Riften. In her mind, there was no need. It was something for a band of thugs—not a band of thieves. Thibault, though, was strong. She doubted that brute force would convince him. Maybe, though, she could. Just by being there.

"My Mother used to read to me."

He paled. She was succeeding.

* * *

Rune had nearly walked all the way to Windhelm before he found the pair in a hollow. It would be so much easier to just slit his throat, but that wasn't what the Thieves' Guild was. And it was a little much, considering Mercer seemed to think that Agnes could handle it.

When he saw them, he paused. She was leaning against him, and he was reading out of a book. It was so strange. She'd been sent all the way to Winterhold to spy on him, and instead she was letting him read to her. Like the child she was.

He didn't think it right to approach. Would he react to a sudden man rushing up to the girl against his shoulder? He watched at a distance, unable to hear them, but able to see. He couldn't read their lips because he was too far, but he could see an occasional smile and laugh from Agnes, whereas the mage grew less and less comfortable with each passing second.

It must have been an hour before he finally decided to leave, and Rune decided to break his cover before Agnes got sent straight back to the orphanage.

"Agnes!" he shouted, forcing a smile. "I've been looking everywhere for you!"

She smiled back, and approached. She stopped just a little bit from him, smiling. "Rune! I'm sorry…I wandered off and I saw him so I followed him—"

"It's OK," he laughed. It made him sick. This was a horrible idea, and he still hadn't found any dirt on Thibault. "We should go."

"Is this your surrogate brother? You're quite infamous among the college members. May I see the runes?"

He smiled, and offered them to the mage. He wouldn't find anything, but he laughed and smiled. "I've never seen anything like it. These are interesting!"

"But meaningless," Rune sighed. "No one's been able to decipher them yet. I hope that changes."

And so they said their goodbyes and returned towards Riften. Rune scowled the entire way. "Did you at least find anything?"

"Not really," Agnes murmured.

Rune's frown deepened. "Nothing. After all that—"

"He won't come back though. It's alright."

"Alright?" Rune snapped. "Mercer shouldn't have sent you. He—"

"Maybe he shouldn't have," Agnes said solemnly. "Maybe I'm a bad person for this kind of thing. But he's not coming back to Riften anymore, I promise you."

Rune stared. "What?"

"Because my Ma's buried there, and I visit her grave every week."

"Why would that mean he isn't coming?"

Agnes smiled softly. "He's my father, and I don't think he wants to be."

**That's it. Not much of a twist, I figured it'd be kind of predictable but I wasn't going for the major twist being some random character I introduced to roast some bandits is related to Agnes. Does this make Thibault a badass bookworm? Does this make Agnes a badass bookworm? The world may never know!**


	6. Business

Agnes had gotten sick. Not dreadfully so, just enough to make her feel queasy and think twice about getting out of bed. She figured she had eaten something bad – maybe the bread she'd eaten the night before had some mold on it. Maybe the meat was a little rotten. But, as days turned to weeks, she realized that was not the case.

She wasn't contagious – she was the only one who got sick. And, when Niruin brought her some hawk feathers, she wasn't able to make a workable cure. Maybe she'd been bewitched. Maybe she was just tired.

She tried to sleep it off, and no one, not even Mercer, objected.

One morning, she woke up around the same time as Cynric.

"Well, you look cheery," he grunted as he got out of bed.

"That's me," she growled. "Ray of sunshine."

"What's that make everyone else?"

"Skeever shit."

Cynric laughed, even as he stretched and got out his bow. Agnes idly thought that she would like to try shooting, if she could ever find a bow small enough for her to handle. Instead, she found herself confined to her daggers. It would be much handier to be able to pick off dangers from a distance.

She shifted on her side, trying to keep her stomach in check. She had barely eaten in the past few days, in attempt to ease the pain, but it didn't help much. She just felt light-headed.

Every now and again, someone would pause by her bed and she would shoo them away. Brynjolf used to accuse her of wanting to be babied, rather than to train. Maybe, she thought, she had wanted it. Just not from the Guild.

* * *

"That's enough, Lass," Brynjolf said, pulling the thin sheet off of Agnes. "You need to get up."

She groaned pitifully, and groped blindly for the absent sheet. Brynjolf stood firm. She had been in bed for two weeks, nearly straight. She was getting out and up, even if all she did was drag herself to the Flagon.

"Come on."

She sat upright, groaning again, and finally stood. It was better than when she'd twisted her ankle, at least. "What's going on?"

"You tell me, Lass."

"I'm sick. Gimme that—"

He pulled the sheet out of her reach when she grabbed for it. "I don't care what you do, but you're getting out of bed."

She frowned, but then, as she started to follow, Brynjolf swore he caught her smiling. He sincerely hoped she wasn't just vying for attention, even as he left towards the Flagon. She followed, which was fine by him. Better than her getting angry and storming off, and breaking her leg again.

Once in the Flagon, he took a seat next to Delvin, and realized that Agnes was no longer with him. He raised a brow, glanced around, but didn't see her. Delvin smiled knowingly. Smug bastard.

Then Delvin's smile faded as a tiny hand dangled a key in front of his face. "What's this do?"

Brynjolf laughed – she'd found Delvin's vault key. That, or Delvin had been out running jobs while no one was looking.

"Give it," he said, snatching the key and pocketing it. "Don't do that again."

"Fine," she muttered, sitting on the last chair. She folded her arms, set them on the table, and laid her head down.

"You've slept enough, Lass," Brynjolf said. She needed to do something. Run a job. Switch a note between people's pockets. Anything, really. "Do something."

"Just did," she yawned. "Nap time."

Brynjolf frowned, and looked to Vekel. "Lend me a hand."

Wordlessly, Vekel set about digging under the counter. Brynjolf settled into his chair as Delvin removed anything fragile from the table and balanced it on his arm. The barman soon emerged, carrying a large, sloshing bucket of water, and approached the table. He poured it on the tired child, and stepped back to avoid getting splashed himself.

"Coooooold," she groaned, not budging an inch.

"Take a job. Visit that grave. Eat something," Brynjolf suggested idly. "You've been sleeping for two weeks."

"Making up for lost time."

"You've made it up."

"I have about five years to make up."

"How old are you anyway?" Delvin asked as he set the plates and bottles of mead back on the table. "Ten?"

"Thirteen."

Brynjolf paused. "You were twelve last I asked."

She lifted her head, and squinted to keep the water out of her eyes. "This funny thing happens every year…I keep getting older."

"When?"

"Back in—" she paused, sniffing. Then, as Delvin set a small plate with a small piece of cheese and bread in front of Agnes, she sneezed. Loudly. "You're terrible, Bryn."

"Thief," he said with a shrug.

* * *

Finally, she'd gotten up and about. Frankly she didn't like being so idle, but by the time she'd run a few jobs, she was hungrier than she was sick. Once she'd eaten, her stomach settled. Just like that, two weeks of doing nothing, fixed.

Brynjolf had even brought a new thief to the Cistern – this was a Khajit. Agnes had never met one, but she felt the insatiable urge to grab his tail. She found herself making her rounds once again, giving a long strong to his tail as she passed. That it infuriated him made it even more hilarious.

"This one's claws will find your throat next time," he threatened.

"Sure, sure," she said with a nod. "I'm sure you will."

As far as she was concerned, it was initiation. Just as her unspoken initiation entailed picking Delvin's pocket, Jehra's would entail catching Agnes in the act. She wondered how long it would take him to catch her. She caught him, usually, glancing over his shoulder to see if he could catch Agnes. It was right after he began glancing that she followed after him and ran her hand along his white, puffy tail.

He was out on jobs much sooner than she had been, but that, as Brynjolf put it, was because Jehra was an adult, and not in desperate need of training as Agnes had been. He wasn't holding his knives facing himself.

She ran jobs of her own, mostly close to Riften since it was convenient and she was still a little weary from her illness. Thibault, as it seemed, had not come back, and Maven had been impressed by the supposedly dead urchin who had helped. As a result, Agnes received a few jobs handling shopkeepers. Anything threatening, Brynjolf, Thrynn, or Vipir handled. Anything quiet, however, Agnes could handle.

* * *

Jehra thought for sure he would die. When he crawled down the ladder, clutching his chest, he made no attempt to be subtle. He would bleed out quickly, if no one came to help. Agnes was the first to notice, and she responded with a very sudden shriek.

"What happened?"

He hissed at her. "This one has no time for cubs."

She scurried off, and he figured that at least he would die free of one nuisance. Soon, though, she returned, Thrynn, Cynric, and Brynjolf in tow. "He's bleeding," she said. "I'll get my salves."

Jehra was helped to the nearest bed, and he hissed again when Agnes returned. Like a mouse, scurrying about her ratway. Fitting, he supposed.

"Don't give me that," she snapped, popping the cork with her teeth and dumping the potion onto his chest. It was cold as ice, and stung something awful, but the pain ebbed and the wound began to stitch itself shut. "You owe me more ingredients."

He spent what must have been an hour in that bed, snarling at anything that moved. Finally, Brynjolf and Mercer approached, and shooed the little mouse away.

"What happened?" Brynjolf asked. Mercer, beside him, was more businesslike and stern.

He snarled as he recalled, "A mage. Breton. Carried a satchel full of books—"

"Where was he?" Mercer demanded.

Jehra squinted as he thought. He couldn't remember exactly where he'd encountered that mage, and he listed the encounter. "He pulled that sword out of the air…called a monster to his hunt…This one ran...north. He was some mountains south of Riften."

"I'll handle this," Brynjolf suggested. Mercer nodded curtly, glaring at the blood-soaked cat, and returned to his desk.

* * *

Whenever Brynjolf left, Agnes found excuses to get out of the Cistern. Usually. Most times, she would let someone know that she was leaving, perhaps mention it in passing to Rune while he read his mail, or Cynric as he fiddled with a new lock. Sometimes she didn't even do that. Sometimes, she just left.

This was one such time.

She was out on the road, right after Jehra got himself hurt. Maybe she wanted to see if she could find Thibault herself. Maybe she just needed to clear her head. In any case, she needed to be out and on her own. When she lived in the orphanage, any time she could get by herself was as good as being adopted. It was as good as being a Nordic heroine. It was paradise. She could go to Oblivion and back if she woke up early enough.

She didn't have to scrounge for time anymore, but every now and again she liked to be alone. Strange as it seemed, it could even alleviate her loneliness.

And then she saw Brynjolf, and a robed man. That was when she crouched low, snuck close, and strained to hear.

"I'll be blunt, Lad, you're trouble. You see why that might be a problem?"

"Trouble? Why? Because I know a few spells? Or because I sent that thief running back? Mjoll told me about your kind – vermin, she called you."

"Oh, it's not personal Lad," Brynjolf laughed. "It's just business."

"Business," he repeated. Agnes squinted, hugging a thin tree.

Brynjolf, as Agnes remembered, was not cruel. He was curt and very blunt, and sometimes absolutely vile company. But he was not cruel. It was almost foreign to hear him speak as he was. Almost. She had to remind herself that Thibault may have been family to her, but he was certainly not family to Brynjolf.

She watched as something snapped in the Breton, as his hands wound back and forth and a flaming man appeared behind Brynjolf. "You don't threaten me," he warned. "Scurry back to your sewer, Thief."

* * *

Thibault had that feeling again, like someone was watching him. Really it was ridiculous, seeing as the thief had his swords drawn and pointed at his antronach and his throat. In a heartbeat, he had created a second skin, and in another heartbeat, he was summoning a sword.

He was interrupted by a low kick at his knee. He grunted and fell, rolling to the side to dodge the Nord's slash. He held out his hands and shot a stream of flames at the Nord, and finally hopped to his feet. He stepped backwards, watching as the antronoch shot flames of its own at the read-head.

"Nice try, Lad."

In one fell motion, he'd cut off the daedra's head and flung the remnants at him. Thibault threw up a ward to protect himself, but the flames wrapped around him and licked at his robes and hood.

Thibault scowled, and gritted his teeth as the Nord nicked him with his sword. He moved to cast a spell but felt no power through his fingertips. Poison. Instead, Thibault pulled the dagger from his belt and slashed at the larger man. He was easily disarmed and quickly noticed the knife against his throat. He stepped back, only for the larger man to adjust, then shove him against a tree.

"Word of advice, Lad," he said, almost kindly. "Be prepared before you pick a fight."

"Get off of me."

"You're in no position to give orders or make threats, Lad."

Thibault grunted, his eyes darting around. There had to be some way out. He hadn't been pinned like this since he first met Hjordis. His hands still felt numb, cut off from magic. It was awful. Cold, empty. Like much of Skyrim, but with none of the beauty.

"Don't worry, Lad, I won't kill you," the man said, almost amused. "I'm a thief. Not a murderer."

Thibault grunted, twisting his neck in attempt to relieve the pressure. It was unrelenting.

"Now that I have your attention, I have a message from the Black Briars. You're not welcome in Riften."

"You say that like I should know," Thibault spat.

The man laughed. "You thought that little urchin would really follow you just to talk to you? Tell me, Lad, where did you think she lived that she could visit that grave and not get sent back to the orphanage?"

"I…" Thibault stammered, unable to think. He tried the magic again, and, to his chargin, his hands were cold. Damn thief had used a strong poison. Was he talking about Agnes? Immediately, he wondered if they threatened her the way they were threatening him now. But then again, he'd seen the scars. They might not have had to. Thibault's eyes narrowed, and he grabbed the Nord's wrist. He attempted to push it away, but he was physically much weaker.

"Tell you what, Lad, I'll put this away if you keep your hands down," the thief offered. "I didn't come for a fight."

* * *

The mage settled down, and, though he glared daggers, he nodded. Brynjolf had a feeling he'd be flighty and run the second he put his sword away. He had that look in his eye. Nonetheless, he stepped back and let the mage stumble, holding his neck. There was a small amount of blood – Brynjolf had to cut him for the poison to work.

Instead, the mage leaned against the tree again. "You almost killed one of our new recruits."

"Ah," he said breathlessly. "I'd hate to think that as one of your senior members. Idiot scratched me when he tried to pick my pocket."

Well, that explained how the cat got caught. Brynjolf would have a word with him when he returned.

"It'd be unfortunate if you came back to Riften and we had to send you a message. Why don't you scurry back to that College?"

The mage began to step away, unsubtly, and finally lifted his hand and vanished. An invisibility spell. Poor mage was like a child.

He turned to go about his business – he was out anyway. Might as well charm a few women and slip their purses into his subpar collection. He regretted not robbing the mage blind while he'd threatened him, but there was no point. Brynjolf could tell he didn't carry much money on him.

He could also tell that there was a little person hiding behind a tree. "How long have you been there?"

Agnes popped out, frowning. "Why didn't he cast any spells?"

Brynjolf laughed. "Poison, Lass."

"Oh."

"Do you have a job Lass?" Brynjolf asked. "Where are you off to, Windhelm?"

"I don't have a job right now," she said. "I just wanted out of Riften for a while. I was going to Windhelm though."

"Don't get hurt, now."

He thought about talking. About what had just happened. About her distinct lack of reaction. Instead, he waved, and started down the path. She could take care of herself. She'd handled herself well enough for the past few months, barring the rare occasion when she got sick, or hurt herself.

Some Nords had gone on their first few hunting trips by her age. This was no different.

* * *

Windhelm, as Agnes remembered it, was cold. So were the people, really. Unlike Riften, however, she could hide in plain sight so long as she didn't wear her armor. She always stashed it under the bridge. That way, if by chance she did get caught, they didn't know she was part of the guild. It seemed silly to take precautions for the event that Grelod learn about her, but Agnes would take no chances.

She followed the roads through the city's graveyard to reach the Snow Quarter. The locks were difficult, but the people were absent. That left her free to raid their treasuries or their jewelry boxes. When she robbed houses, she thought about leaving a mark, like Chance, but it wasn't a good move for a thief.

Once she'd robbed a satisfying number of houses, she started back towards the gates. She supposed she could stay the night, but it might be uncomfortable to sleep in the town with soon-to-be patrolling guards, searching for anything suspicious. She could always stop at Kynesgrove again.

As she approached the gate, however, she stepped aside. There was a well-dressed man, followed by a small set of men. She wondered if he'd make a good target. Instead, however, he glanced her way and asked, "Where are your parents? You don't look familiar."

She froze. No one had asked her that in a very long time. People had assumed her parents were nearby, at the inn or otherwise. "They're at home."

"And where is that?"

"South," she said vaguely. She started to walk towards the gate. "I was headed home, actually."

"What are their names?"

Agnes had never thought of an answer to that question. If she answered honestly, that her mother had died and her father was never part of her life to begin with, she would be sent straight to Honorhall. Not thinking that she could give their names, she sprinted between the man's guard, and across the bridge. There was shouting. Guards along the bridge reached for her, and each time she narrowly evaded them.

She wondered, at first, why they were even bothering, but then she realized her knapsack was gone. All of that work, gone. Now she understood why Delvin called the Guild's bad luck a curse.

She very nearly reached the end of the bridge when a large, burly Nord snatched her wrist. She squirmed at first, and then reached for her dagger. She moved to cut the wrist that held her, but someone else stopped her.

She swore, hissing and twisting in a vain attempt to free herself. "Let me go, damn it!"

The guardsmen led her back to the keep, and then it dawned on her. That man was the Jarl. She couldn't remember his name, and she never thought she would need to.

It was humiliating to be led through the streets by guards, but she conceded and let them take her to the keep. The entire time she hoped that their grips would slip, that she would find her wrists free and at her side, but they were careful, and, to her chargin, they lead her through the doors.

* * *

The girl had stopped struggling, or so Ulfric thought. The second they reached the keep he turned, and saw that she'd kicked one of the guards in the knee in some attempt to free herself. When the other came to grab her, she smashed her head into his throat. If briefly, she had freed herself, and she sprinted back through the gates. Then they closed, and she was trapped again.

Had they not found the knapsack filled with obviously stolen goods, Ulfric would not have known why she struggled so fervently.

"Damn it!" she cursed as a guard put his hand on her shoulder. "Get off!"

She drew another dagger from her boot, and held it in her left hand. She struck at the seam of the guardsman's armor. Ulfric approached, not bothering to draw his own sword. As she held out her dagger, wielding it as a cornered animal wielded claws and teeth, he took a deep breath.

She spun towards him, scowling and still holding her weapon.

"**Zun Haal Viik**!"

The dagger flew out of her hands, and wedged into the wall, just out of reach. That was luck, but she didn't need to know that.

"Get him to a medic," Ulfric ordered, nodding to the wounded guardsman.

He looked at the little girl. She was tiny, utterly insignificant in size, and swathed in coarse fabric. He was certain that she was hiding more stolen goods in there, just as she'd been hiding a second knife. Just from the disdain in her eyes, he might have thought her a young woman instead of a child.

"What was that?" she asked wearily.

She didn't know what shouting was – or had never witnessed it. "The Voice," he answered simply. "Guards."

"Don't touch me," she snapped, shrugging their hands off. She walked nonetheless, and Ulfric didn't say anything else.

They sat her at the table in the war room, and Ulfric stood opposite her. Galmar growled lowly, "This is a waste of time."

"Where are your parents?"

She was silent, which Ulfric took to mean that they were dead.

Galmar threw more questions at her, and she winced with each one. "What are their names? What's your name? How old are you?"

A guard chipped in, "Where'd you get the knife?"

That last question she was more than happy to answer. She pressed her lips together as though trying not to smile, and eventually cracked and said, "I made it."

"There's not much point in keeping this to yourself," he said. "We can try to help you."

"That's a laugh," she said.

When they made no progress with her, only getting mundane answers to mundane questions, Ulfric left for dinner. A guard tried bribing the little girl with sweets, but when she was unmoved he tossed her a loaf of bread and admitted defeat.

He sat at the table, across from Galmar.

"You should let her spend the night in the dungeon," he said. "She stole quite a lot."

Ulfric took a deep breath. The prisons were hardly an appropriate place for a child, but maybe fear of them would persuade her. He gave a nod to one of his guards, and said, "Offer her a room upstairs if she complies. If not…"

The guard nodded and left. Ulfric laughed. "Quite the tale."

Galmar just grunted.

**Is it child abuse if I abuse my child characters? Well, though this was a bit of a wait [I had homework and high holidays to worry about], I found my muse under my pillow somewhere. I think Agnes stole it. Sneaky little creature she is. Well, reviews are appreciated. Thanks to everyone who's read the story thus far; it's passed 500 views.  
**

**This story is actually nearing a conclusion, but I intend to make a sequel based more closely on the actual events of Skyrim. [This takes place a few years before Skyrim.] There will definitely be more chapters, and I'll write short fills as the muse hits.  
**


	7. Numb

They sent her to the dungeon and locked her in a cell. Agnes thought dimly how similar it was to the Cistern – that is, if one removed the metal bars and added a bed instead of a hay pile. At least they hadn't searched her braid. Her braid was the only reason she kept her hair long.

She slept lightly, and, after a few hours, when the upstairs was filled with snoring and she was suitably alert, she pulled a pick out of her braid and began to work the lock. It was a difficult lock, but she managed not to snap her pick.

She crept upstairs, smiling to herself. She didn't have much that she needed – her armor wasn't even with her when they caught her. So, though the walk home would be long, cold, and she would be empty-handed, at least she could return to the Cistern without much fear.

It was not until she reached the main hall that she met trouble. The Stewart, the Jarl, _and_ Galmar were seated at the table, talking war. She gritted her teeth and steeled her courage. Hopefully, if she stayed close to the wall, they wouldn't even notice her.

"What are you doing up here?"

_Shit shit shit shit shit,_ she thought, sprinting for the door. It was large, and heavy, but she figured that if she just pushed it hard enough she could—too late, a guard had grabbed her. She pouted, like the child she was, and sighed. It would not be a long walk home, but if the Jarl had his way it would be dreadful.

The guard led her by the table, and gestured for her to sit. She did, propping her head up in her hand.

"That worked so much better in my head."

Ulfric laughed. "Where are you so anxious to get to?"

She wasn't falling for that. Maybe, she thought, she could just tell them about Thibault. And maybe someone would try to find him. But she didn't want to see him, since he didn't seem to want her. The longer she stalled, the more chances she would have to escape and return to the Ratway.

"I don't suppose you'd like to talk about anything? Anyone?"

Scowling, Agnes shook her head. "No."

"If you don't tell us something soon, we'll have to send you to the orphanage."

Part of her wanted to roll up her sleeve and show them the scar that Grelod had given her. Part of her wanted to explain that Grelod would _kill her. _But instead, Agnes folded her arms and laid her head down on them. "Can I go back to prison now?"

* * *

Thibault was uncomfortable entering Riften, but he had business. His plan was to speak with Wylandriah and get out. But, on his way, he walked past the graveyard. He half expected to see Agnes at Hjordis' grave, but no one was there. On her grave, he noticed, someone had laid red flowers. And they were dying.

He sighed, and went about his business. And, before he left, he was sure to lay a few blue flowers on her grave himself.

* * *

The third time she escaped, she opted to tell them how old she was and her a fake first name. She said her name was Igna instead of Agnes. Similar in sound, but different enough that it'd keep some old hags off of her trail. It was hard – she had to remember the name she'd pretended to have. But, because she'd "conceded," they moved her out of the dungeon and into a room with a bed. It wasn't much different, though, they kept her under lock and key and tried to figure out who her parents were far too often for her liking.

It was a little harder to judge when it was safe to pick her lock, but she kept quiet and figured that she could infer when the guards weren't paying attention. It was one guard, but they changed places every hour or so until the evening, when they unlocked her door to give her food. After that, she could hear them trading places once every three hours. A while after dark, they only changed once more. That, she decided, was the best time to sneak out.

She bided her time and pulled her pick out of her hair. She settled in front of the door and fiddled with the lock, taking a deep breath through her nose.

Then the pick broke.

She stared at the broken shards, and her breath caught in her throat. She tried the knob, and it wouldn't turn. She was locked in, with no way out short of scaling the icy castle walls. For a while, she stroked her braid, trying to see if maybe she'd kept a second pick. There was nothing there.

Once she was sure that her pick had really broken, she laughed softly. It was awful. It was absolutely awful.

She settled into bed and clutched the pillow, curling into the smallest ball. Burying her head in the pillow, Agnes sobbed. She hadn't cried in a long time. Sometime after she'd been sent to Honorhall, she realized that she had to be stronger. No crying over skinned knees or smashed-up faces. No crying over Mommy and Daddy. She was older than the others, and when she cried, they cried too. When they cried, Grelod got mean.

But here, there was no Grelod. Agnes couldn't hold their hands and baby them. She didn't have to, and with luck she would never have to again.

She wondered numbly if someone would come to her rescue, as Niruin had before. She also wondered if no one would come, if her luck had run dry. She wondered if she would find a chance to escape.

She cried, trying to smother her sobs with her pillow, but the guard must have heard.

"What's wrong in there?"

She didn't speak, instead hiccupping into her pillow. The door opened, and the guard looked at her. Agnes glanced up, noticed that it was a woman and she wasn't wearing a helmet, and she looked just a little bit like her mother with her blond hair and her blue eyes and her raised cheekbones. But she was much younger than Agnes' mother had been.

"Are you alright?" she asked. "Do you need some water?"

The door was open, and Agnes wondered briefly if she could break through, but she couldn't _stop_ _sobbing damn it_ and wouldn't be able to leave without attracting attention.

"No," she managed to say.

The woman left tentatively, and locked the door behind her.

* * *

Time was up. Ulfric had war plans to make, and the little girl could not stay forever. They had tried offering her help, and she hadn't so much as given her name. She'd broken out of her cell three times, and although she stayed in her room, Ulfric had a feeling she'd exhausted her supply of tools.

Igna was willing to talk about books, and music, but she wouldn't reveal anything else about herself. Galmar had mentioned that Igna might not even be her name, and Ulfric had to agree. She was very careful with what she told them. She was hiding something.

He sent guards to ask if she was willing to speak seriously, and, as he ate his breakfast in the throne room, he wondered, now that he'd sent a warning that she'd go to Honorhall if she didn't tell them what had happened.

He shifted at the table as she sat across from him, and she kept her head down and her gaze averted. At first, she was quiet, and he let her stay that way.

Then, "My mother died when I was younger."

She said it earnestly, and Ulfric nodded. He knew grown men and women who had lost parents and not handled it so calmly. Though, perhaps it had happened long enough ago that she'd come to terms with it. "And your father?"

"He…I didn't meet him until recently," she said. "I didn't know he was my father, but I had a book of his that he'd written in. And he signed his name, and someone told me what it said." Her voice wavered, and she didn't look at him. Like she was ashamed of confessing. "I met him by my mother's grave – and he ran off when I told him her name was Hjordis and my name was Agnes."

Galmar was right. She had lied about her name.

"He's a mage, and his name is Thibault. He…he came up here to visit someone named Wuunferth?"

Ulfric nodded. He'd met the man. Always seemed to be in a hurry.

"Why not say something earlier?"

"Doesn't matter," she said.

Once again, he nodded. "Fair enough."

* * *

Thibault didn't know when his purse had been cut, but someone had slashed a big gaping hole in it. He had to stop in Windhelm, if only because he'd forgotten a few notebooks with Wuunferth. At least he didn't carry too much money on him when he went on these ventures, but he hated the thought of being turned away from an inn because he couldn't pay for a room or a meal.

He had forgotten what being so broke was like, and all the way to Windhelm he hoped that some thief would be stupid enough to try something. Alas, no one attacked him. And, when he reached Windhelm, a guard met him at the gate.

"Can I help you?" he asked hurriedly.

The Guard nodded. "Your name is Thibault?"

"Yes," he sighed. "Yes, yes, yes, my name is Thibault. What is it?"

The guard eyed him wearily through his eyeholes, the same look many Nords gave him once they found out he was a mage. Or guessed it from the robes and staves. "You're wanted up in the Palace of Kings."

"I was going there," Thibault explained. "Did something happen?"

"You could say that. I think it's better if you just come."

And so, unable to find any answers, Thibault stormed through the streets and up the stairs, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed. He opened the door and suddenly, he froze.

Agnes was looking him in the eye.

She looked far too innocent for a thief who had tried to manipulate him.

And she looked far too pathetic for a thief who had tried to manipulate him.

The guard explained, "She was caught stealing from several homes. We waived most of the bounty, since nothing was damaged."

"And?" he asked, wearily.

"You're her father."

He looked to Agnes, as though she would help. She gave him the same look, and thus ensued a battle of wills. She, however, looked much more pathetic, and Thibault quickly turned back to the guard. "I was robbed. I don't have any money on me at the moment."

To demonstrate, he pulled his coin purse from his belt and stuck his fist through the cleanly-sliced hole. Agnes snickered. "Did you catch him?"

"Guess," Thibault muttered bitterly.

"Do you have anything else with you at all?"

"I have a few books which might be worth something. How much is the damage?"

"Forty septims – she injured a guard."

Not so innocent after all. He grunted irately, and asked, "Can we leave this to later?"

The guard paused, deciding, and said, "I suppose, the bounty is small…I could leave it be for now."

"Her name is Agnes—"

"We've met," he assured the guard. "I need to speak to Wuunferth."

The guard gestured to the war room, and, as Thibault left, he could hear the guard sighing in relief.

* * *

Ulfric stood by the map with Galmar, and they were careful to keep their voices down. Just as well, since that mage entered. He had tawny brown hair, just long enough to look disheveled, and wore the face of a man who wanted to either burn everything to the ground, or get home quickly. Possibly both.

"Are you the mage? Your daughter is—"

"I'm aware, sir," he said, gesturing to Wuunferth. "I've got the journals. Please tell me you have whatever it is you wanted."

Wuunferth laughed. "I have them, I have them. You're late."

"I had to speak with Wylandriah," he muttered. "Incomprehensible woman…we all have a grand old time reading her requests."

The two mages shifted to their corners, and Galmar and Ulfric set their own conversation aside. They needed Wuunferth's advice on a few things anyway. He watched, a little bemused, making a silent bet to Galmar that the man would carefully dodge the question of his own daughter and try to sneak out. Unfortunately, no one wanted to bet that he wouldn't.

"Did you notice your daughter out there?"

"Yes," he huffed. "I did."

"You sound happy," Wuunferth said dryly.

The mage sounded irritated.

"After all the times her mother begged all Nine Divines she wouldn't take after me," he said, "You would imagine she take after her mother."

"Does that mean we should be checking our locks every time you come around?" Galmar interjected.

"Just give me your notes," he muttered. Wuunferth snorted, but reached into his robes and pulled out a small, leather-bound journal. "Good. I'll be off then."

Ulfric almost wanted to go out and see if the man dodged his own daughter, but he could hear him stopping by her, asking if she needed anything. When Galmar left to sit at the table, Ulfric followed, and they saw him reaching into her back and pulling a spare cloak out.

"Hope you're not tired," he muttered, sounding exhausted himself. "You remember hiking down from Winterhold?"

"Now to do it uphill?"

"Regrettably, yes."

When the pair left, Ulfric turned to Galmar, and asked, "Who owes who a drink?"

* * *

Times in the Cistern were looking dark indeed. Agnes had not returned, Jehra had gotten himself killed, and though Brynjolf had found another recruit, he was too green and too arrogant. He would get himself killed without an attitude adjustment, and they all knew that wouldn't happen unless Brynjolf or Mercer took it upon themselves.

He sat at the bar with Delvin while Vekel poured them drinks. "She's probably taken a detour," he suggested. "Maybe she went somewhere far away."

"She could be dead," Brynjolf admitted, scowling. He thought she was just going to Windhelm.

Delvin patted him on the back. "It's alright Bryn."

* * *

The hike to Winterhold was long, silent, and cold. Thibault could create fire with a thought, but Agnes was certain he was creating ice.

By the time they reached the college, it was morning, and Agnes was absolutely exhausted. She thought of every training session with Brynjolf, and realized how it paled in comparison. As they travelled through the town, she clung tightly to her father, more to support herself than out of any desire to be close to Thibault.

They received weird looks as they entered the college, and when the gates opened, Thibault sternly said, "Stay close to me. Some other members may be practicing…flammable things."

Though Agnes held her father's cloak and let him support her, she couldn't do much else. She was absolutely exhausted. She could barely focus on her surroundings; there were words about Thibault obtaining a young daughter in his travels, jokes about him adopting a grown man's sister, and further jokes about his tastes. Agnes didn't understand those, thankfully.

He dropped off his notes, explained that he needed to take a leave of absence from the College, and brought Agnes to his room. He let her use his bed, and he slept in a chair beside her.

It was not unpleasant.

* * *

Thibault had a house in Falkreath, far away from Riften. As he put it, it was the best place for her. But there was no one for miles. Falkreath was not even near. It was just her and Thibault, and he had to return to the College. She thought she would be free from him for a time, but he insisted that he would finish whatever business needed finishing and come to live with her. He even spent a few days scrambling around and trying to find someone to watch her.

"I want to go back to Riften," she said when he returned. "I don't like it here."

"You're not joining that damn Guild."

"They took me in when I was in trouble, taught me how to fight," she countered bitterly. "That's more than I can say for you."

"I saved your_ life_," he reminded her sternly. "I'm your father."

"Then act like it!"

She went to her room and settled into bed, her bed. In the Cistern, she'd had a bed and chest of her own. She imagined it was still filled with her books and potions, and her spare clothes. She had never had much in the way of material possessions.

In the Orphanage, some of the children who had never known their parents asked what having a Mother was like. Agnes had always told them, "It's the best thing in the world."

She was never able to tell them what it was like to have a father. Now she knew, and to her mind, fathers were overrated. Brothers, people like Rune and Niruin, were better. She wasn't sure what Brynjolf was to her – he wasn't a friend. But he wasn't just one of the Guild Masters. He was a teacher. He was the first man to ever give a damn about her.

She had doubts that Thibault cared.

And so she tried to fall asleep, for the first time since escaping Grelod in a home, with a father, with a family.

But the home was barren, her father useless, and her real family miles away.

When she slept, she didn't dream. For the first time in her life, she felt numb.

**This is the end, regrettably. I will be working on the sequel promptly, and in the mean time you'll get to read all the little shorts of things between now and the events of Skyrim. When I post it, I'll have another story on my profile. [I've actually already written the first.]**


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